Playing Hookey
by Sisyphean Effort
Summary: An unknown enemy is playing a sinister cat-and-mouse game with Mello that may cost him Matt's life. Can Mello and Near overcome their animosity for each other and work together to save him before it's too late? Wammy's House time period. Mello/Near, Mello/Matt.
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own DeathNote or any of its characters. I consider this rated 'T' (for some offensive language and violence). The setting is modern day London, and Mello and Near are both 15. This takes place shortly before Mello leaves Whammy's House in the series._

Playing Hookey

Chapter 1: Cemeteries of London

The cemetery was beautiful in the early morning light.

There had been a light sprinkling of rain that morning, the opaque drops of which clung to the petals of roses, roses which curved and framed and covered various pieces of statuary within the graveyard. A bust of a Victorian lady looked like she was inhaling one of the flower's fresh dewy scents, the bud was in such close proximity to her weathered stone face. Grey...grey stones scattered everywhere. So many of them littered about in their various, but not unexpected, forms: aging Celtic crosses and angels and Grecian urns and...cats. So many grey stones and so little else, framed by funeral wreathes of dead grass. A line of human-sized crosses stood like a battalion of ancient soldiers in a long row, a continuous line of grey, interrupted only by the random chaotic bursts of red and pink and mauve flowers. Cemetery roses. A color that was like life itself in the midst of all that death.

And nearby, a boy in black roamed restlessly.

Past statues of weeping angels, the boy stalked, a dissatisfied expression on his face. A face as fierce and beautiful as the angels themselves: a Gothic vision with shining blond hair, colored like sunshine, and long, green cat-like eyes lined in charcoal black. His black leather clothing glinted on him like the coat of a wet seal: as sleek and shining as the droplets which sparkled like bits of glass on the flower petals. He was a wrought iron rose, a hardcore angel. His name was Mello, and he was currently playing hookey from the Whammy House kids' field trip to the London Zoo.

The city of London was a boisterous, crowded place, but here in the cemetery silence and solitude calmed and soothed the day. It was one of the reasons Mello liked to come here. Never mind its morbid beauty-all the pretty statues and roses and verdant overgrown loveliness. The cemetery was an oasis, a place of respite. It was a place for him to be away from the other kids. He and Matt were very fond of sneaking off to be in the cemetery. Matt, so he could smoke, away from Roger's disapproving eyes, and Mello, so he could simply be himself. Rebellious and volatile in all his tight, leather clad, eye-lined glory, the outfit was just one more thing-like Matt's smoking- that would earn him the scathing, unspoken disapproval of Roger's ever watchful, paternal gaze. En route to the zoo, Mello had kept most of his clothes hidden under a black vinyl rain slicker. Now, the coat lay draped and forgotten over the outstretched hand of a stone angel. A mournful, makeshift coat rack.

Mello roamed alone over the graves of Victorian poets and writers. He slipped behind a wall of foliage, treading areas away from the well-worn paths. He was upset with Matt, and wanted to be away from him. In Mello's mind, Matt had not paid him nearly enough attention upon their arrival here. Instead, the other boy had propped himself against a headstone and pulled out his I-phone, all to start playing some annoying little game or other on its busy, bleeping screen. Mello had hoped they could make out. They had done so the last time they had been here, and Mello had found the circumstances and location exhilarating, exciting even. But no. Not today. Matt couldn't be bothered to look up from the (apparently more enticing) square, glowing screen. And Mello had become annoyed. And had promptly stalked off.

Mello stopped before an intrudingly modern-looking headstone with a picture of a footballer in uniform glazed over the top of it in an aesthetically unappealing, shiny mica-like finish. _God_, _how atrocious, _thought Mello. Then he moved on to another headstone, one almost as tall as he was, with the words D-E-A-D carved out in its weirdly slanted side. That was all the stone said. _Funny, _thought Mello, _Somebody here at least has a sense of humor. _Mello lingered before the "D-E-A-D" tombstone, enjoying its aesthetics and morbid sensibilities. He reached up a gloved hand and fingered the cross on the handmade wire-and-bead rosary that he always wore. _That's the kind of tombstone I want, _he thought, _simple and to the point. _Mello turned his head, his elongated cat's eyes scanning the nearby cemetery wall. He'd come to the end. _Well, _he thought, I _guess I should be heading back._

Mello glanced down at his watch. It was almost eleven. If he and Matt left now, then they would probably get back right around lunchtime, hopefully before anyone had had the chance to notice that they were gone. Mello started back in the direction where he had last left Matt. Past lonely crosses, ugly footballers, elaborate urns, and angst-ridden angels. He found his angel coat rack and snagged his slicker from her cracked, worn hand, pulling the shiny material around his lithe, black-clad frame. He ran one gloved hand through his now messy hair: after the morning rain, the humidity and moisture had had its way with his usually straight locks, causing his bangs to curve and spike in all different directions. His coal-rimmed eyes scanned the area, on the lookout for Matt.

Mello's heavy boots crunched over dead foilage as he made his way back. Again, the continuous line of man-sized crosses: he was getting close. Usually, Mello would be able to find the other teenager simply by following the _bleeps _and _bloops _of whatever game that Matt happened to be playing. That, and the heady sent of cigarettes, the smoke curling, white as a specter floating up to heaven-he could follow it like a banner waving in the air. But Mello neither heard nor saw anything. He detoured off the marked path, heading toward a large, concealing cluster of snail covered headstones that he remembered Matt being propped against when they had first arrived. Mello looked down on the ground and stopped. There amongst the dead leaves and dry grass was a half-smoked cigarette, its lit end still glowing faint with bits of orange ash. Mello picked it up-yes, Matt's brand-then dropped it again.

_Matt, where are you?_

Now Mello was really starting to get annoyed. The teenager was notorious for his volatile temper, and he could feel it starting to rise like a fetid corpse from a bottomless bog. _Fuck you, Matt._ First off, the other teenager had completely ignored him, and now it seemed he had wandered off altogether. _That prick better not have gone back without me. _Mello narrowed his eyes-a twitchy cat on the prowl-as he wove his way into nests of mossy tombstones. _Goddam you, Matt, why are you like this? Why do you always have to-_

-and then Mello froze.

Mello felt his breath catch in his throat as he stared at it: the writing on the tombstone. _Red writing._ Was it blood? It certainly looked like it was. And there, on top, positioned like the requisite cherry on a particularly morbid sundae was-

A severed hand.

Mello's own hand immediately reached for his rosary, clutching it as if for protection, for a safety net. He knew the glove on that hand. He knew it! He has last seen it wrapped around a phone, tapping away, as he had turned and stalked off into the cemetery. _Oh, god Matt!_

Mello felt himself start to tremble violently, with fear and so much more, as he stared down at the evil red writing on the tombstone:

_Hey, Whammy's House's no. 2! Wanna play a game? The game is you find Matt before sun down or he loses more than just a hand!_

And then, in smaller print underneath:

_P.S. Just don't invite any grown-ups to play, OK?_

Mello, without conscious thought, started backing away from the vicious, taunting graffitti-backed up and then promptly tripped over a low-lying headstone, falling flat on his back into the still-damp grass. He turned his head and found himself eye-to-eye with a large brown mollusk, its antennae extended out toward his face like groping hands. Mello then scrambled to his feet, his eyes wild, darting, animal-like within their coal-black rings. _Oh, god! What was he supposed to do? What was he going to do? Oh, god, Oh, god! What if he never saw Matt again?  
_

And then Mello turned and fled the cemetery. . .

End Chapter 1.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Hands

Mello was in a panic as he tried to weave his way around and through groups of little school children at the London Zoo. Blue uniforms, burgundy uniforms, green uniforms-he was a battered life boat set adrift in a veritable sea of uniforms. Why were there so goddam many of them? The teachers shot Mello nasty looks as he attempted to rudely shove past them, their looks scathing, screaming without sound, words of singeing disapproval. _Juvenile delinquent!_ At any other time, any other day, Mello would have met their disgusted looks head on, his mouth quirked up in an evil half-smile, his intense green eyes boring into theirs until they were forced to look away. But not today. Not now, when he was in so much trouble. Not with Matt gone, with Matt-

_No! He didn't want to think about it._

Where were the Whammy's House kids? Where was Roger? Why couldn't he find anybody? _Hey, Whammy's House's no. 2-Wanna play a game? _Mello's heart was beating so fast he was sure it was about to jump out of his zippered breast. He rushed around the penguin habitat, toward the zoo gift shop. And skidded to a halt. There, off to the right, sat Roger, at a picnic table with a number of the House's younger kids. And there, to the far left-as far away from the others as he could get, noted Mello-at another picnic table, sat Near.

A wellspring of conflicting emotions bubbled forth as Mello watched his rival.

Near sat on top of the picnic table, not in the seat, his right leg bent and propped on its surface, the other left dangling. Roger had only half-managed to get Near out of his pajamas: he had on a pair of jeans and some Chuck Taylors, but he still wore his over-sized pajama top. It enveloped him like a white, billowy cloud, almost as white and billowy as his ashy, unruly cherub's hair. In his own way, Near was almost as bad as Mello about clothes. Near's attention was focused, as usual, on the book that he held open in his hands: a hefty copy of Hume's _'Treatise on Human Nature.' _Mello recalled that he'd had his nose stuck in it during the entire tube ride here. And it was still stuck there (when in fact, like Mello, he was supposed to be watching the younger kids). But Near, like Mello, didn't seem to care about the other kids. He kept to himself, lost in his own world of theories and puzzles and imaginings. Near was silent, and did not socialize with others at all. Near was like a locked secret. Near-as his too white skin and hair suggested-was a hot-house flower. A well-nurtured, cloistered genius. Near was Mello's biggest competition.

_Whammy's House's no. 2. . ._

So it was obvious who number one was.

Mello took a step in Roger's direction, then paused. _Just don't invite any grown-ups to play. _Mello found himself wavering. What to do? His cat eyes flicked between both Roger and Near. And then he decided. Because it was Matt, and his life was at stake, he chose.

He went to Near.

Near barely glanced up as Mello rushed over and grabbed onto his pajama sleeve. "Near," Mello whispered urgently, "come over here, I need to talk to you."

"You can talk to me right here," he said, in a voice as calm and soothing as a church bell. His eyes kept scanning the book.

"No, you don't understand," insisted Mello. He lowered his voice even further. "Matt and I went over to Highgate Cemetery and while I was off, somebody...somebody took Matt and they left me a message-"

Near's eyes stopped scanning.

"-it looked like blood on a tombstone, with a message that said I had to play a game or else-"

Near clamped the book closed.

"-and they left a _hand _on the tombstone. A hand, Near. And they said 'no grown-ups.' What if Matt is in _pieces_?"

Near calmly laid the book down on the table.

Mello swallowed. Within their blackened borders, Mello's pupils were dilated wildly, liked he'd been bingeing too hard on those chocolate bars he loved so much. He and Near stared at one another.

"You have to help." Those words, so hard to say, came out little more than a whisper.

"Very well," said Near, the very picture of calm, getting down from the picnic table. "Lead the way."

Near could never, ever, resist a puzzle.

* * *

Mello was practically dragging Near along by the time they reached Swain's Lane. It had been a long uphill trek from the tube station into Highgate, and by then, Near had slowed down so much that Mello had been forced to push him, pulling him along behind him by his too-long pajama sleeve like an uncooperative trolley cart. _Near needs to get out more, _thought Mello. _ He's completely out of shape. _After what seemed like an eternity, the two of them rounded the gate into Highgate East, with Mello stopping to plunk down four pounds at the entry booth. The woman working the booth narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Mello-hadn't he already been here before?-before handing him their tickets. Mello then snagged Near's droopy collar and pulled him inside.

The two of them marched down the marked path, by the long row of giant crosses, past the serene expressions of the stone angels, and over into the more overgrown, neglected areas of the graveyard. Dead leaves and brambles crunched loudly under Mello's boots, Near's sneakers, as they ducked behind a concealing wall of foliage. It was past lunchtime now and the sun blazed high, dappling the earth with bits of sun through the overhanging canaopy of twisted limbs and clinging leaves. They came upon a group of mossy, square headstones, and Mello suddenly stopped short, causing Near to collide with him.

"There. . ." said Mello.

Near peered around the other boy, his eyes taking in the tombstone with the red writing, the severed hand. Then, without the slightest hesitation, Near went around Mello and claimed the gloved hand, like a morbid trophy, scooping the appendage from its mossy, stone pedestal.

Mello grimaced and looked away.

Mello heard the ripping sounds of velcro and he realized then that Near was removing the glove. _Ugh! It's like undressing a corpse! _He couldn't look, yet at the same time, he _wanted_ to look. _Oh, god, Matt!_ Mello risked a quick glance in Near's direction. From the corner of his eye, he saw the other boy carelessly drop the now-denuded hand into the grass, just like another one of his forgotten toys. "It's not Matt's hand," Near announced. Mello turned to face him.

"How do you know?"

"No gaming calluses on the thumbs." The observation: simple, direct, obvious.

It made Mello feel like an idiot.

And the last thing Mello wanted to feel like was an idiot-especially around Near. He could feel his temper rising again, like a wronged apparition, a feeling that doubled in its intensity with Near's next statement:

"You didn't think to check the scene before running off?"

Translation: You allowed your emotions to get the better of you and you acted without thinking. _Again._

Mello glowered.

"You have your next clue," said Near, holding up a folded piece of paper. "It was clutched in the hand."

Mello snatched the piece of paper away from Near and unfolded it. It read:

_"All that year the animals worked like slaves. But they were happy in their work; they grudged no effort or sacrifice, well aware that everything that they did was for the benefit of themselves and those of their kind who would come after them_, _and not for a pack of idle, thieving human beings." _*

Confusion marked Mello's face. "It's a page from Orwell's _'Animal Farm'._"

Near narrowed his eyes. "Let me see it." Mello reluctantly handed the page over, and he watched as the other boy quickly scanned its contents. Then he looked up at the gnarled branches above them, as if he expected the answer to drop-like a lead balloon or broken kite-from the sky above. "The book is an allegory for communism. We are in Highgate East, correct?"

"Yes."

"And Karl Marx's grave is here. . . correct?"

"Oh, yey-the big, giant head! Yey-it's way off in the other corner."

"Then that's where we're going. Lead on."

Near followed Mello back to the main path and they trudged along in hurried silence to the opposite end of the cemetery. They passed a solitary couple, who stopped taking pictures just long enough to stare at both boys-the one decked out in shiny leather and eyeliner, the other pale and anemic and looking as if he had fell head first into someone else's laundry basket-as they sauntered past. Mello could feel their stares and he casually tossed them the finger over his shoulder, hoping the rude gesture would tick them off. _Goddam tourists._ Mello was in a foul mood. He had been scared before, but now that emotion had given way to the far more comfortable one of anger. Anger he could deal with. Anger he was used to. Especially now that Near was here. Having the other boy with him, having to rely on him, fed his growing rage, like kindling on a catching flame, like coal thrown into a roaring furnace. Near pissed him off. Matt pissed him off. The person who was playing this sick game with him pissed him off. Mello was shaking, his hands shoved deep within the pockets of his rain slicker, shaking because he was so _dangerously pissed off._

"Ah, here's Mr. Big Head now."

The monument was huge-the height of two men at least. Karl Marx's bearded visage sat on a large, vertical stone pillar bearing the inscription: "Workers of all lands unite." The overly ornate tombstone looked completely normal-except for a conspicuous piece of paper attached to his beard. Both Mello and Near stared at it as it flapped idly, its movement calling to them both like a whispering siren song on the breeze. Neither could reach it-it was attached too high. Mellow saw some portruding square notches on the monument's side and immediately began to climb up after it, his gloved hand reaching-but not quite making it-for the flapping piece of paper. "Goddam it, Near! Come boost me up!"

Near looked chagrined at this suggestion, but he came over, his pale hands pushing at Mello's wet, muddy boots.

"Come on! Higher! If you don't, I swear I'm going to stand on your head!"

Near's expression, as usual, didn't change with Mello's threats. He just pushed harder. Mello managed to snatch the paper, and he leapt to the ground, as sleek and agile as a black cat, in triumph. "Got it!" he crowed. Then he looked at it.

"What the fuck?"

It was a flier for discount theater tickets, the kind that you found all over London, practically at every tube station. Near peered over Mello's shoulder at it. "Someone's messing with you." he said.

"You think?"

"I don't like it," said Near, his church bell voice completely serious. "This game we're playing, the other person has too much control, too much of an advantage. They're leading us around by the nose." He paused. "We should tell Roger."

_"No."_

"Then I guess we're going to Leicester Square next."

"Well, I guess we are, then."

"Just what have you done, Mello?"

Translation: Who did you piss off so badly that they feel the need to do this to you?

And the scary part was, Mello wasn't sure how to answer that.

End Chapter 2.

_*Excerpt from the beginning of chapter 6 of George Orwell's "Animal Farm."_


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks to all my faithful reader/reviewers--you know who you are, and you know how much I love--love--your input. Thanks for reading this (not so little) fic. of mine. I promise a rollicking good mystery here, and with a little help from Just Funning (who will be writing a section of this chapter), I hope to deliver. Oh, and Funning doesn't know the answer to the mystery, either, which is ironic because he's helping to write it:)_

Chapter 3: Poker Face

Clasping the discount ticket flier in a leather-gloved fist, Mello headed for the cemetery exit, with Near following close behind him. It was after 1:00, and the words, _find Matt before sun down, _rang like the clanging sound of a rushing, oncoming trolley bell in his ears. Behind him, Near was speaking, a repetitive buzzing background noise that was as constant as it was annoying:

"There are dozens--dozens--of discount theatre ticket booths located in Leicester Square. We have no way to narrow down our search. We could spend all day on this and still not uncover the right one--"

"--Shut up!"

"--with this kind of deadline, such a random approach is foolish, and futile--"

"--I said,_ shut up_!"

"--and pointless, there has to be a better way--"

"--Can it, Near!" Mello slowed to an abrupt halt as they neared the cemetery entrance booth, his eyes narrowing with devious calculation.

"Hey, Near. Run up to that booth and tell the lady you need a bandage for that cut on your hand."

"Cut? What cut? What do you mean--"

Mello whipped around and grabbed Near's wrist. The other boy's eyes widened in obvious fear as the malevolent gleam of an arcing knife came towards him. An evil grin graced Mello's face as he all-too-gleefully drew the blade over the tender flesh of Near's captured palm.

"Mello, what the--ow! _ Ow!_" Mello withdrew the knife and gave the other boy a hard shove in the back:

"Now! Go!"

Mello watched as Near stumbled up to the entrance booth, clutching his throbbing, bleeding hand, not understanding Mello's intent. The bleeding boy went up to the glass, stammering, "Uhm, excuse me, Miss. Can you help me?" He held up his palm--the blood unfurled across his hand like a winding silk ribbon on his too-white skin. The woman' eyes widened with obvious, motherly concern.

'You poor boy! Wait here, and I will go over and get the kit from the West-side gift shop, and we'll fix you right up." Near just stood there motionless, uncertain, watching as the woman left the booth to go jog across the street to the bigger shop by Highgate West. Meanwhile, Mello saw his chance and ran up to the cemetery's donation box, flipped open the glass lid, and started shoving pounds and pence alike into the deep inside pockets of his rain slicker.

Mello saw Near watching him, the other boy's eyes registering the faintest hint of anger and dismay, and he felt his evil grin return. Finished, he snapped the glass lid shut on the now-empty box, and he ran over to the other boy and snagged his now blood-stained pajama sleeve. Mello's eyes stood out wildly from their kohl-rimmed sockets: he was buzzing, like someone who'd actually gotten a high from this one act of petty theft. Or from cutting Near. Or maybe it was because of both. Either way, he felt newly energized, and he pulled Near away from the graveyard's entrance and down the street, scrambling for the nearest tube stop.

"Now we got money for travel card passes!" he proclaimed with unsupressed glee. . .

* * *

"You didn't have to do that," said Near in a flat voice, staring at both his and Mello's reflection in the glass of the tube car's window across the seat from them. Near sat stiffly, one hand unconsciously, like a five-year-old, twirling a pale strand of his untamed, curly hair around one finger, the other--now bandaged with a strip of his own pajama sleeve--lay upright on his knee. He stared at his bandaged palm like it was an alien creature, completely separate from himself. Meanwhile, Mello lounged, sprawled across the seat like an urban odalisque, the belt buckle on his pants riding dangerously low, showing _way_ too much stomach. The older woman sitting diagonally from them looked appalled.

"I said I was sorry, okay? I was out of money and needed a distraction."

"Next time do it to _yourself._"

"Not logical. Who the hell would want to help _me_? You're the innocent-looking one." Near said nothing and Mello knew he had him with the logic of his argument. Near could always be swayed with solid logic.

"You could have at least warned me--"

"--You wouldn't have let me."

"No."

"So my approach was perfectly logical!" Again with the devil's grin. Near looked away. If Mello didn't know any better, he'd almost call Near's mood a sulk.

Only Near never sulked. In fact, Near rarely ever showed any kind of emotion. The look of shock on his face as Mello had come at him with that knife had been priceless, a rare vision, something to be savored. For Mello, that expression, that reaction, had been completely and utterly--

_Gratifying._

"Next stop: Leicester Square!"

Mello sprung up at the announcement and stood in front of the car's sliding doors. The train rocked to a gentle stop, and the few people on board crowded around the exit, all except for Near, who continued to stare like an unmoving statue at his wounded hand. Mello looked over his shoulder and beckoned, "Come on, Near!"

Near's head snapped up, like someone who'd been rudely shaken awake. The car's doors slid open and Mello watched as he sluggishly got up and trotted toward the exit. _Maybe the trick with the knife was a bit much, _he thought. But just as quickly, a conflicting thought followed, killing any bit of remorse he might have felt: _No--it was too much fun!_

Mello had some strange notions of what constituted 'fun.'

The two boys took the escalator above ground and jogged up the remaining steps that lead out onto Charring Cross road. They were immediately swept up in an overwhelming tide of people, pushed like minnows up stream in the direction of the square. It was mid-day, a week day, and still the streets were crowded, congested, the area around the square like a shaken and stirred cocktail of people: everywhere, all around them, were various colors, nationalities, languages, and outfits. Huge, surrounding marquee signs flashed and advertised various bits of entertainment. People ran, walked, stopped, and took pictures. Pigeons cooed and begged for scraps along the concrete walkways around the tiny park. Mello held onto Near's collar as they marched around the edge of the square. So many different signs proclaimed: "Get your discount theatre tickets here!" So Near, unfortunately--and as usual--was right. There were too many booths, and it would take forever to narrow them all down. Only they didn't have forever--they only had until sundown! Mello's eyes darted around frantically, searching for a clue. He felt his agitation, his irritation, at the situation returning. "Goddam it, Near. You're right. There are too many ticket stands for us to search."

Mello felt Near grab onto his arm. "Mello!"

"We'll never figure out which one it is!'

Mello felt Near's grip tighten. "Mello, we don't have to. . . look!" Mello eyes followed the direction of Near's raised finger. In the middle of the crowd, standing out like a splash of bright red paint, was a man with an electric blue mohawk wearing a kilt and a pair of Doc Martens. He carried a sign--but instead of the usual add for Doc Marten shoes, the sign read: _Hey, Wammy's House's no. 2! Go see Evan S. Shiedile, Ten N. Heart Court_!

"Motherfucker!" Mello took off in a wild sprint toward the guy with the mohawk, and Near, thrown off balance, hurried to try and follow. Mello, without a second thought, stomped right up to the guy with the sign, a grim, determined expression on his face.

"Hey, you! Where did you get this sign?"

The guy with the mohawk turned and grinned, showing off a gleaming gold tooth that matched his eyebrow piercing. His eyes skirted Mello's leather and vinyl clad frame up and down in obvious appreciation. "Hey-hey, cutie! Say. . . haven't I seen you around here before?"

"I don't think so," replied Mello, his tone bristling. He could feel Near's presence somewhere behind him, hovering. "Why don't you tell me who gave you that sign?"

The guy looked up at the sign as if he was surprised to find himself carrying it. He shrugged nonchalantly. "Just some guy. Now, I _know_ I've seen you around here before--someone as fine-looking as you, I definitely wouldn't forget. Hey, what say you and me go party later, after this little gig of mine is over?" This last was followed by another leering, gold-toothed grin.

"He's underage," came Near's cold response from behind.

The mohawk guy ignored Near, licking his lips in exaggeration. "Looks plenty old enough to me. . ."

Mello felt Near at his elbow again, grabbing his arm and pulling him away. Mello said nothing. The mohawk guy just laughed, jeering: "Hey, hey--I think your boyfriend there is feeling a little jealous, cutie!"

Mello turned and blew the mohawk guy a kiss over his shoulder. He let Near drag him along, because really, the situation was just too funny. Near, on the other hand, seemed agitated. Without looking at Mello, he said, "So, are you spending your nights in Leicester Square now?"

Mello's eyes narrowed, glaring at the back of Near's head. "Who said _anything_ about me going _anywhere_ at night?"

"The third floorboard to the right side of your door creaks."

Mello brought them both to a sudden stop. "Hey! Are you spying on me?"

Near turned around then, but his face was just as inscrutable as always. "Just observant. You should try to be more so, if you really want to solve this puzzle."

Mello felt his anger rising again. "It's not a puzzle, Near. It's _Matt._" Mello then swung away and stormed off, his expression bordering on rage. _Why did everything look like a puzzle to him? Did he not see people at all? And why did he say that thing about being in Leicester Square at night? And more importantly still. . ._

_Why didn't he tell Roger?_

_

* * *

_

_ Mello stared intensely at his cards, tugging furiously at his blond bangs. Finally, with a curt nod, he picked up some chips and tossed them on the pile in the center of the table. "I see your 1000 and raise another 500." _

_ The 300 pound asthmatic named Melvin to Mello's left wheezed and folded. The other three players called. The young cocky hotshot Puck had two pairs, Jacks and 8s; the sultry woman with the revealing top who called herself Zelda had a straight; Hector Torres in his expensive suit and silk tie had a full house, 10s over 3s; Mello had a pair of 5s._

_A measly pair of 5s._

_Hector laughed as he raked his winnings to him. He puffed on a cigar that belched foul-smelling smoke toward the ceiling where a noxious cloud had formed. He stacked his chips up into little towers next to him. Only they weren't actually so little. Not like Mello's quickly dwindling stacks._

_"Looks like luck isn't on your side tonight," Hector said around the cigar clamped between his teeth, staring across the table at Mello. "Poker is not a game for children."_

_Mello narrowed his green eyes. "I'm no child."_

_"I meant it not as an insult. I take the money of all ages, sexes, and races. If you want to play on, then by all means be my guest."_

_"I'll play on," Mello said with steel in his voice._

_"Not me," said Melvin, taking a heavy pull on an inhaler. "If I lose any more money, my wife'll have my dick on a platter."_

_"Letting the old ball and chain run your life?" said Puck, probably no more than five years older than Mello himself. He wore round wire-frame glasses, an obnoxiously loud Hawaiian shirt, and his short brown hair was gelled into a spiky configuration that looked like a bed of nails. "What kind of man are you?"_

_"The kind who wants his wife to spread for him sometime this month." Looking toward Zelda, glancing first at her cleavage before raising his eyes to her face, Melvin added, "No offense, of course."_

_Zelda, her hair the same flaming red as her lips and fingernails, just twisted her mouth into what might have been a smile or a snarl, it was hard to tell._

_Melvin gathered up what little money he hadn't lost and said goodnight. That left just four players, sitting around the table in the middle of the empty warehouse just off Charring Cross Road. It was well past midnight, Mello had sneaked out of the house to attend this game and would be in deep trouble if Roger found out about it. It was high stakes, especially with Hector Torres--one of the top crime bosses in all of London--at the table, but Mello had never been one to play it safe._

_The next hand went to Mello and his flush, but since the other three players all folded as soon as he raised the bet, he won very little. Then he lost a small bundle to Zelda's three of a kind. Hector won the next two rounds, then Mello the one after that._

_"Last hand," Hector announced, stubbing out his cigar in an overflowing ashtray. "I have important matters to attend to in the morning, so we'll have to close up shop after this."_

_The first bet was on Hector, who with a smile and a wink slid 2000 pounds worth of chips into the center of the table. Puck, some of his cockiness dissipating like steam, folded immediately. Mello studied his cards for thirty seconds or so, twirling his bangs around a finger and tugging. He then turned his attention to the chips he had left. Not many, but enough. "I see your 2000 and raise 1000 more."_

_Zelda considered for just a moment then folded._

_Which meant it was down to just Hector and Mello. The crime boss and the kid. Hector stared across the table, one half of his mouth quirked up in a condescending half-smile that Mello didn't care for at all. The moment stretched out, the warehouse preternaturally silent, Hector smiling and Mello obsessively tugging at his hair. Then with a swipe of his arm Hector shoved all his chips--every single one of them--to the center of the table and said, "I'm all in."_

_Zelda's eyes widened and Puck gasped softly. Mello tried to keep his expression neutral, but he gaped at the pile of chips, literally thousands upon thousands of pounds, then he looked at his own pile. No more than 400 quid left, no way he could match that bet._

_Apparently reading Mello's thoughts, Hector leaned forward and said, "If you want to call, I'll accept an IOU just this once. I'm not worried, I know I'll get what I'm owed from you...one way or another."_

_Mello thought it over for a moment, looking from Zelda to Puck, who shook his head and mouthed "Don't do it." He tugged at his hair so hard he felt like he might rip it right out of the scalp. Then with a sigh he said, "I call."_

_Hector couldn't have looked more pleased had he just been granted immortality by the gods. With a flourish, he laid down his cards to reveal a straight flush, the 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8 of diamonds. He was already reaching for the pile of chips when Mello cleared his throat._

_"Close," Mello said, "but no cigar."_

_The Mello laid out his own cards, revealing a royal flush in spades._

_Again, Zelda's eyes widened and Puck gasped. At first Hector seemed not to register what had just transpired, but then his entire face fell like melting wax._

_"I guess luck was on my side after all," Mello said with a grin, reaching for his winnings._

_Suddenly Hector was on his feet, grabbing Mello by the wrist. "You cheated."_

_Mello looked up with his feline eyes, the very picture of innocence. "And how do you propose I did that?"_

_"You were tugging on your hair."_

_"Excuse me?" Mello said with a frown._

_"All night long you've tugged at your hair whenever you were bluffing. It was an obvious tell, everyone at the table noticed it. That's why we always folded when it was obvious you had something but called when you were bluffing. The tugging of your hair always gave it away, and on this last hand you were tugging at your hair worse than ever."_

_"And yet I wasn't bluffing this time...go figure."_

_"You faked the tell," Hector said in a quiet, seething voice. "You faked it for just this moment, you deceptive little bastard!"_

_"I don't know what you're talking about," Mello said, gathering up the chips and stuffing them in the backpack he'd carried with him._

_"You know exactly what I'm talking about, and if you think I'm going to let you get away with it, you've got another thing--"_

_"Hector, be quiet," Zelda said, her voice low but firm. And much to Mello's surprise, Hector shut up instantly, looking like a chastised child. "The boy outsmarted you, beat you fair and square."_

_Mello stared at Hector and Zelda, from one to the other, wondering about their relationship, and then it dawned on him. Hector Torres was a name he knew, but the real powers in the underground crime syndicate were probably names no one had ever heard, people who kept a low profile. With a start, Mello realized that Zelda--or whatever her real name was--outranked Hector._

_"I'll be going now," Mello said, slinging the backpack over one shoulder._

_Zelda gave him a slight nod. "Stop by the office at the front before leaving to exchange your chips. You played well, little one, impressively so."_

_Mello mumbled a thank you then started away, but behind him he heard Hector say, "Yes, very well indeed. Perhaps we will play another game in the future, one in which I'll have the upper hand."_

_Without looking back, Mello left._

End Chapter 3.


	4. Chapter 4

_I'd like to send out a special thanks to Just Funning, for the superb writing job he did on this chapter and the last (my one regret is that there are so few people reading it)_. _I'd also like to send out a special thanks to both UP2L8 and Jorgmund Piper (who are, in fact, reading it:)._

Chapter 4: Make me Bad

Mello and Near found themselves swept along by the fast, ever-flowing current of people on the street, moving, like a pair of luckless, directionless salmon, to an unknown destination upstream. Mello kept a tight grip on Near's collar as they rushed head-long down the busy sidewalk, like the other boy was some sort of unruly five-year-old who was likely to dash off at a moment's notice. "We need to focus on the clue that was on the sign," insisted Near from behind him. Again, the tone of his voice was lulling, soothing, like the pealing sound of distant church bells. Mello thought he could fall asleep to it.

"We are focusing on the clue," said Mello. And then, without warning, he yanked Near off to the side, beneath an awning with a yellow and black sign which read: Internet Cafe. He pushed his way through the plain glass door with Near in tow, and went up to the young man working the counter. "I'd like an hour." Mello plunked down a two pound coin, and the kid behind the counter handed him a log-in code. "Number twelve," he said in an apathetic voice, and then promptly went back to staring at his own computer screen.

There were several rows of tables and chairs and computers, and everywhere young people perched limply on creaky, uncomfortable wooden seats, their glazed eyes hooked to the pulsing, glowing screens in front of them, like junkies strung out in a high-tech opium den. Mello claimed the chair in front of monitor number twelve, and started typing. _Evan S. Shiedile, Ten N. Heart Court. _Mello plugged the name and address into the search engine, and watched as it came up with. . .

_Nothing._

Mello saw Near out of the corner of his eye; he was sitting, as usual, with one leg bent and perched on the edge of his seat, one hand up and unconsciously twirling a piece of his unruly hair. He didn't even look at the screen, but instead, stared at the blank wall. Mello changed the letters to numbers, the N. to 'north,' and searched again. Still, he came up with nothing. Mello felt his frustration rising. "What the hell?" he muttered. He typed and re-typed, but still there were no viable hits. Mello smacked his palm down on the table. "Goddam it."

Mello watched as Near got up and tore a piece of paper from the perforated sheath feeding into the printer.

Mello scrolled down the list of suggestions from the search engine. No such person or place in London. "That can't be," he murmured. What if the 'clue' was a fake one, a distraction to lead them away from the real search? What if they were wasting their time here when they should be checking out the ticket booths in Leicester Square? What if. . .

Meanwhile, Near was scribbling on his piece of paper with an abandoned ink pen.

Mello rubbed his face with both hands, then raked them back through his hair, causing his bangs to stick up in all directions. _Think, Mello, think! _He certainly knew of no Eric Shiedile, didn't know of any North Heart Court. _Stupid sign!_ Mello stared at the clock on the wall: it was now after 2:00. _He only had until sundown! _Mello kicked the table leg in frustration. Then a piece of paper slid across the desk, into his view. It read:

_Evan S. Shiedile, Ten N. Heart Court=_

_The Seven Dials, Unicorn Theatre._

A rage like an angry mountain lion sprang out of nowhere like a predator in an ambush. Mello backhanded Near, the slap sounding like the snap of a rubberband under his leather glove. The act was over and done with before he knew it, before he'd even had a chance to think about it: it was an emotional reaction, pure and simple, and as the boy standing in front of him--the boy with his hand raised to his now reddened cheek, his eyes gone cold and alien with anger--so often liked to point out, Mello was ruled entirely by his emotions. _In the worst possible way._

Mello watched as Near turned and silently walked away.

The blond boy just sat there, dumbfounded. He stared down guiltily at his own shaking hand. _Why did he do these things? Why?_ _Why couldn't he control his own impulses?_ The letters on the piece of paper blurred and swam in front of him. His traitorous hands clutched the edge of the table--not in anger--but in desperation. _Goddam him for making him feel this way, anyway!_

_Oh, like what? _said a devious little voice in the back of his head.

_Like an idiot. Like he was second-rate. Like he was a fucking loser. Like he was--_

_Number two._

Mello jumped up and ran for the door. He emerged outside, his green eyes scanning the busy sidewalk, looking for the white shirt and ashy hair. He didn't need to look far. Near stood by a brick column nearby, his back turned and his head bowed in defeat. The sight caused a conflicting cocktail of emotions to swirl inside Mello, a conflict he could neither make sense of nor make peace with. He only knew that when he looked at Near, his own feelings descended into complete chaos. He _hated _the other boy! _Hated _him! He hated the fact that he was smarter than him. He hated his lack of emotion, his choir boy calm, while Mello's own emotions, own impulses, ran wild and rampant. All his life at Wammy's House, Mello had fought to prove himself to be better than Near. Always. And still, Mello could not win. His own deviant impulses got in the way, sabotaged his progress. And in the end, there could only be one of them chosen. In the end, there could only be one on of them on top. And Mello knew he couldn't win this. And so he hated Near for making his own flaws--his own failings--so brutally, obviously clear. He hated what the other boy made him see in himself.

Mello swallowed and silently approached the other boy.

Mello stared hard at Near's back, the jut of the shoulder bones seemed so delicate, so brittle, beneath the billowy pajama top. Near didn't move. When Mello had gotten within three feet of the other boy, Near raised his head and spoke:

"If you can't beat the game, if you can't solve the puzzle, you're nothing but a loser. . ."

Mello froze. He felt his rage rising again, like a bird ready to take flight. He felt it rise, felt it surging, and then. . .

He pushed it, shoved it, all the way back down. Instead, Mello strode across the three feet of space between them and wrapped his arms around the other boy from behind, his grip desperate, crushing--

--_like a drowning man clutching desperately at a lifeline._

Mello felt Near stiffen beneath his embrace. They stood that way for several seconds, unmoving, silent, then Mello said, "Don't go, Near. Don't leave. I can't figure this out by myself. I need you--"

-_-to save me from myself_.

"--I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that--"

--_because you make me feel inferior._

"I'll try and behave. Please, just stay. For Matt--"

--_who doesn't love me. Nobody does._

"--if nothing else. You're the only one who can help me with this--"

--_because you are too good for me_, _so far beyond me._

"--since I keep letting my emotions get in the way."

--_and you feel nothing--absolutely nothing--not for me, not for anyone._ . .

"Don't hate me, Near." Mello's grip tightened. Then the other boy said, softly, almost in a whisper:

"I don't hate you, Mello. I've _never_ hated you."

Translation: I don't think about you at all.

Mello felt his heart sink inside. _Don't let him see! _He finally let go of Near and the other boy turned to him: Near's face, as always, registered nothing. _Why doesn't he feel anything? _Near was all business again, just as if the slap, the embrace, and Mello's emotionally charged pleadings had never happened. He was like a pane of glass, and Mello was like the light passing through it, touching nothing, leaving no traces behind. Nothing. Mello looked away then, thinking. Then Near said:

"Shall we go find the theatre then?"

* * *

_The place was loud and crowded, a chaotic kaleidoscope of flashing lights and leather-clad bodies, the throbbing bass of the music battering at the walls and threatening to bust out into the night. Mello loved it here. The atmosphere of the club just off Oxford Street was electric, dark and decadent, and he'd been so excited to share it with Matt._

_Of course, the tall boy with the mop of red hair and yellow-tinted sunglasses seemed oblivious to his surroundings. He sat at the corner table, cigarette dangling from his mouth, eyes trained on the screen of the handheld electronic game cradled in his hands. The usual beepings and whirrings of the game were buried under the pounding music and rowdy crowd, but Mello imagined he could hear them anyway, drilling into his brain like an icepick._

_"Isn't this place great?" Mello said, having to shout to be heard above the din._

_Matt didn't look away from his game, just raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. "It's alright."_

_With a sigh, Mello stared out at the dance floor, the sweaty gyrating throng of people moving almost like one multi-celled organism, a rainbow of dazzling lights streaking their sweaty faces like warpaint. There was so much to see here, so much to_ experience_, and yet Matt might as well have been back at Wammy's House in his room._

_"You know," Mello said, sliding his chair closer to Matt and placing a hand on the other boy's thigh, "there's an area in the back where people can go and...do things."_

_This at least got Matt's attention, causing him to glance briefly away from his game and at Mello. He seemed to consider for a moment then said, "Maybe in a little while. I just want to get past this level."_

_Irritated, Mello jerked his hand back as if he'd been scalded. "Well, I'm going to get a drink. Want anything?" When Matt didn't respond, thoroughly engrossed again by the glowing screen, Mello huffed and started off toward the bar._

_He knew of at least a dozen boys at Wammy's House that would have been all over him if he'd brought them along tonight; so why had he brought Matt instead, a boy who often seemed indifferent to Mello even when they were making out and groping? Was it the challenge of attempting to break through that indifference? That couldn't be it, otherwise Mello would have been trying to get in Near's pants. Then again, Near was No. 1 and Matt No. 3; perhaps Mello just couldn't stand to be ignored by someone who was his inferior. He would have expected Matt to constantly be clamoring for Mello to notice him, just like--_

_In any case, Mello was determined to get some action from Matt tonight, even if he had to get the other boy stinking drunk. He ordered two beers, the cute bartender with the tongue stud tipping him a wink and not asking him for ID or any money, as usual. Looking as Mello did, his body swaddled in the leather and vinyl, he usually didn't have any trouble getting what he wanted from bartenders. Now if he could just work that same magic on Matt._

_Holding the beers above his head, Mello started shoving his way back through the crowd. He felt someone reach out and squeeze his crotch, but he just shook off the hand and continued on his way. He was almost back to his table when he stopped suddenly, staring at Matt..._

_And the old man sitting next to him._

_The guy had to be in his 40s at least, salt-and-pepper hair and a 70s porn mustache. He wore a purple silk shirt that was unbuttoned practically to his navel, revealing a chest so hairy it was like AstroTurf. He was sitting very close to Matt, seemed to be whispering in the boy's ear. Matt was still focused on his game, but then Mello saw him laugh and smile at the old man. A mist of red filmed over Mello's vision, and while it was just a red strobe light from somewhere up near the ceiling, he thought it was the perfect metaphor for the rage he felt take hold of him._

_Hurrying the rest of the way to the table, Mello plunked down the beers and took a seat on the other side of the old man. "Hi ya, what's going on?" Mello said._

_The man looked away from Matt with a frown, but when he got a good look at Mello that frown turned into something a bit more lascivious. "Well, who do we have here?"_

_Mello told the man his name and held out a hand._

_"Hank," the man said, shaking. They maintained contact a little longer than necessary._

_"So what brings you to our table, Hank?"_

_"I saw your friend sitting here all alone, and I thought he could use some company. A boy as cute as this shouldn't be by himself."_

_Mello motioned Hank closer, talking intimately right into his ear. "Honestly, that's the way he likes it. He's kind of a stick in the mud."_

_"Really?" Hank said, glancing over at Matt, who had gotten lost in his game again and seemed unaware that anyone else was at the table with him._

_Mello reached out and put his fingers to Hank's chin, forcing the man to look back at him. "Me, on the other hand, I know how to have fun." Mello punctuated this by poking out the tip of his tongue and licking his top lip._

_Hank seemed speechless for a few seconds, his mouth hanging open, then said, "Is that so?"_

_Mello nodded, took a swig of his beer, then announced, "If you two will excuse me, I need to go to the restroom."_

_Then without awaiting a response, Mello left the table and hurried to the nearest restroom, pushing through the swinging door and quickly scanning the small area. There were only two stalls, both empty, and one urinal, and a sink with a streaked mirror above it. He was alone in the restroom, but only for a moment._

_As expected, Hank followed him in._

_Mello turned but before he could speak a single word, Hank was on him, kissing and fondling him through his pants. Mello let this continue for a few moments before grabbing Hank by the back of the hair and yanking his head back._

_Hank laughed. "You like it rough, boy?"_

_"Rougher than you know."_

_Then Mello stepped aside, keeping a fistful of hair while he shoved Hank's head down, slamming the man's face right into the edge of the urinal._

_Hank cried out, the sound liquid and bubbly, and fell to the floor. His nose was pouring blood, gushing onto his chest and matting the hair there. He looked up at Mello and said, "Are you crazy?"_

_"Listen up, you old fart," Mello said, all pretense gone and nothing but anger and possessiveness remaining. "Keep your geriatric hands off Matt, I don't even want to catch you looking his way for the rest of the night. He's with me, got it?"_

_"You think so?" Hank said, his voice nasally and muffled as he pinched his nose to try to stop the bleeding. "Just because you came here together doesn't mean he's_ with you_."_

_"Hands off!" Mello said vehemently, punctuating the command by spitting on Hank._

_The man just laughed, despite being sprawled bloody on the floor. "You think you're such hot shit, don't you? Well, just maybe one of these days someone will take your little friend away from you, then we'll see how hot you are."_

_"If anyone takes Matt from me, it won't be you," Mello said then kicked the old man in the ribs._

_Leaving Hank writhing on the floor, Mello exited the restroom and returned to his table._

End Chapter 4.


	5. Chapter 5

_A small note on this chapter: being the technological idiot that I am, I erased my first copy of this chapter entirely and had to recreate the whole thing. I skipped food and everything else to do it_, _and_ _now here it is. . ._

_Oh, and Just Funning has, once again, contributed his superior writing skills to this section (for which he has my greatest thanks!)._

Chapter 5: Shadowplay

As it turned out, the Unicorn Theatre wasn't that far away from their current location. The two boys went on foot up Coventry Street, heading in the direction of the Seven Dials, past book shops, and clothing shops, and print shops, and other minor altars erected to the great, all-powerful gods of conspicuous consumption. Mello had his hands shoved deep within the pockets of his rain slicker, the hood pulled up, the material creating blinders for the sides of his face. He looked like he had folded in on himself, a black vinyl origami re-shaped into a closed box, a leather monk marching silently off to mass. He no longer held onto Near, and he almost wished that the other boy would leave him--leave him and prove to him the dark, paranoid suspicions that he held deep within the back of his own brain. And yet the other boy trotted along faithfully behind him, like his own personal guardian angel, a ghostly spectral white to his zippered, armored black. They hadn't spoken since the awful incident back at the Internet Cafe, and they both remained silent until they turned left onto St. Martin's lane, where Near said:

"So, have you given any thought to who might actually be behind this?"

Translation: Of all the people you have managed to piss off, who are our most likely suspects?

Mello snorted derisively.

Mello had made so many enemies over the past month that it was impossible for him to narrow the names down to even a short list. In his head, he saw a papyrus scroll being unrolled, the paper hitting the ground and the page unfurling and going on and on and on, the names on it too numerous to count. He just rubbed people the wrong way. Or rather, people rubbed_ him _the wrong way, and the result often ended in a fantastical, over-done outburst of violence. He just couldn't help himself. He couldn't control his own wicked impulses. That was the real reason he needed Near here--not just for that clever brain of his, that was so much better than his own at unraveling complex clues and puzzles. No, he needed the other boy to help keep him in line, to keep him from going ballistic, to keep him from just flying off the handle. . .

_To keep him from completely slipping into darkness._

The two boys dodged around racks of clothing that had spilled out onto the sidewalk from a consignment shop. Seventies prints and fringe brushed their arms and faces. Two trendy London girls stood by the racks, their wedged heels tapping out the beat from a song which played on a nearby radio sitting on a green plastic chair.

_Do I attract you?  
Do I repulse you?  
With my queasy smile?  
Am I too dirty?  
Am I too flirty?  
Do I like what you like?_

_I could be wholesome,  
I could be loathsome,  
I guess I'm a little bit shy.  
Why don't you like me?  
Why don't you like me?  
Without making me try. . ._

The sound of music and tinkling, girlish laughter followed them out of the racks. The two boys fought their way through the crowds of pedestrians, until they saw, off in the distance, the marquee sign for the Unicorn Theatre, rising up like a mirage from a hot, sweltering desert. Mello and Near jogged across the road to the front entrance. Mello bounded up the concrete steps to the plain glass doors. He peered inside at the darkened box office that was obviously empty and closed. He pulled on the doors: locked. The theatre wasn't even open. Near stood on the bottom steps, a question on his face. Mello looked around, and seeing a small brick lane running along side the building, he took off. "Come on," he called to Near. The alleyway was just wide enough for the two of them to go through in single file. They emerged onto a small cobble stone lane in the back, littered with boxes and trash cans. A scratched metal door lead into the back of the theatre. Mello approached the door, his hand reaching into his rain slicker.

Mello knelt by the door, and taking out a pair of metal pins, he went to work on the lock. Behind him, Near hovered uncertainly, his eyebrow slightly raised.

Beneath the concealing safety of his hood, Mello said, "I can feel your look, Near."

"So this is how you get through the front gate at night."

Mello felt a wry half-smile creep over his face. No use denying it; it was obvious the other boy knew about his nightly 'outings.' The real question was, why didn't he tell Roger what he was up to?

_Because he doesn't care enough to bother, _said the evil little voice in the back of his head.

Mello felt the smile from his face fade at that thought. Scowling, determined, he concentrated even harder on the lock.

"You forgot to put the padlock back in place four days ago," commented Near, his voice neither accusing nor disapproving. It was a simple, flat statement. Mello didn't know what to say to that.

The tumblers inside the lock shifted and clicked. "Yes!" proclaimed Mello in triumph. He wrenched the door open, and without a second thought, slipped inside. Near hesitated. Mello's hooded face reappeared between the crack in the door and the wall like a ghostly apparition. "Well--aren't you coming?"

"What if it's a trap?"

"What if it is? We'll deal with it when we get to it."

Near's shoulders sagged a little at this, as if this were exactly the response he'd been expecting. Expected and still didn't like. Mello turned and went back into the darkened theatre, and Near reluctantly followed him. The two boys silently, carefully, groped their way through the darkness backstage, until they came to a door which opened onto a long, carpeted hallway, which presumably led to the front of the house. The two of them padded quietly down the narrow passage until they came to its adjoining entrance. In the dim, sporadic lighting beyond they could make out row after shadowy row of worn theatre seats. The two of them froze, knowing that if they went any further, then they would be visible to the entire house. Then from the left, from where the stage must have been, a loud voice boomed out:

"What would you say to me, Lady Stuart? You wished to speak to me; and I, forgetting the queen, and all the wrongs I have sustained, fulfill the pious duty of the sister, and grant you the boon you wished of my presence, Yet I, in yielding to the generous feelings of magnanimity, expose myself to rightful censure, that I stoop so low. For well you know you would have had me _murdered_!"

A second voice rejoined: "'Twere not your fault, no more than it was mine. An evil spirit rose from the abyss to kindle in our hearts the flame of hate, by which our tender youth had been divided. It grew with us, by bad, designing men fanned with the ready breath the fatal fire! Now we stand face to face; now sister, speak: name but my crime, I'll fully satisfy you."

"My better stars preserved me! I was warned, and laid not to my breast the poisonous adder! Accuse not fate! Your own deceitful heart it was--the wild ambition of your own house!"

Mello crouched down and duck-walked from the hallway to the safety of a darkened row of velvet-lined seats. In the blackness, his vinyl rain coat glinted like the edge of a dagger. He waved Near over, and the other boy followed him; the two of them waited in a low crouch on the floor in one of the aisles. Mello cautiously lifted his head and peered over one of the seat-backs.

There were five people on stage, seemingly in the midst of a rehearsal. 'Mary Stuart' gleamed like a candle flame in a bright red satin dress, while 'Elizabeth' wore a somber, high-necked velvety black. There were also three men on stage, decked out in crisp, sleekly cut, modern black-and-white suits: their clothing contrasted starkly with the Elizabethan gowns that the ladies wore. The stage was void of any kind of prop or scenery, with the exception of one single, ominous-looking guillotine which sat near the front of the stage by the footlights.

Near also lifted his head and scanned the stage. He sucked in his breath the moment his eyes alighted on the guillotine. He grabbed Mello's arm, and the other boy's face swung toward him, questioning. Near pulled on his sleeve, and silently mouthed the words: "We should go."

"By my word, sister! I do believe that Wammy's House's number two has arrived!" Both Mello and Near froze at this comment.

"I must say, I am surprised to see him here so soon," said Elizabeth. "I thought it would have taken him a lot longer to puzzle out what was written on that sign."

"Quite right sister!" said Mary, "But. . . surely you don't think that he figured that out all on his _own_?"

"Of course not, sister. I am afraid that he doesn't have what it takes--the brains, that is--to figure such a thing out," Elizabeth's taunting words echoed across the theatre, hitting with the precision of a flying arrow. "Otherwise--like you--he would be more than just _number two!"_

"Truly, sister!" cried Mary. "You insult me!"

Mello tensed, like a cobra ready to strike. He could feel his anger rising, even as he kept his position on the floor. He could feel Near gripping his arm tighter, trying to hold him in place. _Why? Why did everyone always--always--have to throw the fact that he was number two in his face? _Mello found himself breathing hard, practically panting with rage. He needed to stay calm! _Calm!_

"What will you do, _number two_," continued Elizabeth in her sinister, cajoling, rage-inducing voice, "when you fail to bring little Matthew home? Because you will fail, you know. You--your entire existence--is the very definition of the word 'failure'. . ."

"Enough!" screamed Mello, who sprung out from his hiding place like a tiger, bounding over the row of seats in front of him, storming the stage. Behind him, he could hear Near whisper, "Mello--no! It's a trap!" But his words went unheeded. Mello had just barely made it up the steps to the stage before the three men were on him, restraining him, forcing him to the ground. Mello swore and fought and kicked as they drug him over to the base of the guillotine, struggling like a wild cat even as they managed to force him to his knees in front of the sadistic device. He felt rough hands gripping the back of his neck, pushing his head into the wooden joint beneath the blade.

"Just who the fuck are you people?" Mello swore, his green eyes on fire with rage. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Why? Oh, my dear boy!" said Elizabeth, strolling over to stand right in front of the guillotine. Her dress settled around her like a murder of ravens as she knelt down to look Mello directly in the eye. "What in the world ever made you think this was about _you_?"

Raucous laughter erupted from the players on the stage. Mello's eyes darted around wildly. "Why would we be concerned with _you_?" continued Elizabeth. "What threat could you possibly be to us, _number two_? Now. . . let's talk about someone who is a _real_ threat." Mello's eyes widened as Elizabeth stood suddenly and whirled toward the row of seats where Near was still hiding. "You there, little one! Why don't you come out of that hiding spot of yours?"

A single, quiet word resounded from the aisle: "No."

"You don't care to join us? No? Well then, how about this: you tell us you _real _name, or we're going to cut off your little blond friend's head."

Mello struggled wildly at this command. _No! It couldn't be! Not Kira! Not here in England! It was impossible--L was fighting Kira in Japan_! _ But if it wasn't Kira, then why--why would they want Near's real name?_

_His real name. . ._

Again, a simple, firm response: "No. If I give you my real name, and you are connected with Kira, then I would be signing my own death warrant." Such perfect logic. Mello hated the lack of emotion in that bell-like voice.

"Goddam it, Near!" shouted Mello. "You could at least pretend to think about it!" There was more vicious laughter from the three men standing over him. "Not the best of friends, then, eh?" said the one--who then stepped around the side to take hold of the rope which kept the blade tied into place.

Mello felt himself break out into a sweat.

In the darkened gloom of the auditorium, Mello could see another black suited figure emerging slowly, silently from the same unlit passage way that he and Near had come through earlier. The man moved stealthily, his raised arm holding a small object that winked and gleamed in the dimness: it was small, and silver, and dangerous looking. . .

_A needle._

"Near!" Mello managed to shout before his head was slammed into the wooden joint, hard enough to make him see stars. Blood trickled down from his nose, staining the polished wood. _ So this wasn't just abou_t _him, was it? Or maybe it still was. Maybe the person behind this knew more about Mello than even Mello himself cared to admit_, _and that's why they were going after both Matt and Near._ Mello violently wrenched his arms to the side and managed to rip one of his hands free from his captors. His hand immediately went for the knife tucked into his boot; he brought the blade up and down and into the top of the man's foot who was holding onto the back of his neck. The man screamed and stumbled back, releasing his hold. Unfortunately, the man holding the rope decided to intervene, grabbing onto Mello, the two of them struggling wildly. A diabolical screech cut through the air as the blade flew toward the earth with deadly intent. Mello watched, his kohl-rimmed eyes as wide and as wild as a tsunami wave, as the blade slammed down into the joint a mere six inches in front of his own face. Everyone on the stage froze then, staring in awe at the blade. . .

. . .except for the man with the needle, who was steadily, silently advancing on an unsuspecting Near. Mello's eyes were crazed, wild as he called out, "Near, run!" He watched--like someone viewing a slow-motion sequence in a movie--as the man with the needle pounced. Mello didn't get a chance to see what happened after that, because his own face was suddenly covered with a noxious-smelling cloth, and the cloying, overwhelming scent of ammonia, ammonia mixed with something else, filled his lungs, and after that everything, the whole world, went quietly, and mercifully, black. . .

* * *

_ It was approaching dawn when Mello and Matt finally left the club. Mello had eventually cajoled the other boy away from his game long enough to dance, and they'd even made out a bit in the back, although nothing more than that. Still, it had shaped up to be a fun night out._

_As they exited the club and started toward Oxford Street, headed in the general direction of the train station, Matt tucked his game in his back pocket then glanced sheepishly at Mello. "So, I noticed that old guy followed you to the bathroom."_

_"Yeah?" Mello said teasingly, more than a little pleased to hear a hint of jealousy in Matt's voice. "When you gotta go, you gotta go."_

_"Well, just seemed awful coincidental that he had to go at the same time as you, especially after you were flirting up a storm with him and all."_

_"Flirting? I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."_

_"You think I didn't catch that bit you were doing with your tongue?"_

_"I didn't think you were noticing me much at all, to be quite frank."_

_"Well," Matt said, bumping Mello's shoulder with his own, "I notice more than you think I do. So nothing happened between you two in the restroom?"_

_"Not a thing. I mean, come on, the guy was a month away from the old folks' home."_

_Now it was Matt's turn to tease. "Oh, I don't know, I thought he was kind of cute."_

_"You did, did you? Well, why don't you just--"_

_Mello didn't get to finish his sentence because something heavy collided with the back of his head, sending him sprawling to the pavement. He managed to get his hands out in time to save his face, but his palms got scraped, dribbling blood and burning. He turned around to find a freakishly tall woman with dark hair standing over him, a laden purse in her hands._

_Only upon closer inspection he realized this wasn't a woman at all. The illusion was almost perfect, but a prominent Adam's apple and the conspicuous bulge in the crotch region spoiled the picture. She/he wore a tight leather miniskirt and a simple white blouse that stood out starkly against the mocha-colored skin. Her/his eyes were blazing._

_"Hank told me what you done," the drag queen said in a deep, masculine voice, further detracting from the facade._

_Mello, his hands stinging as if assaulted by dozens of tiny bees, tried to get to his feet, but the queen swung her/his purse again, connecting with the side of Mello's head and sending him back to the sidewalk._

_Matt stepped in then, advancing on the queen. "Hey, you leave him alone."_

_"Back off, Carrot Top," the queen said, shoving Matt hard in the center of the chest. He stumbled back into an old man with a polished wooden cane, the both of them toppling to the ground in a tangled heap. A crowd was gathering, but no one offered any assistance._

_"What's your damage, Tranny Annie?" Mello said, feeling his anger rising like the mercury in a thermometer._

_"Hank told me you came on to him in the bathroom then you attacked him when he turned you down."_

_"Well, Hank is feeding you a line of bullshit because he was the one who couldn't keep his hands off me in the bathroom, and that was after he'd already unsuccessfully tried to seduce my friend."_

_The drag queen laughed once, loud and short like a bark. "You expect me to believe that? Me and Hank have been an item for going on two and a half months now. No way he'd cheat on me."_

_"Maybe you need to teach him about fidelity," Mello said. "And while you're at it, teach him how to kiss. He slobbers way too much."_

_The fire of rage flared bright as ever in the queen's eyes, and the purse came up for another blow. Mello prepared to take a leap at the queen, planning to tackle her/him around the waist, but he didn't get the chance. Matt came up from behind, the old man's cane held in his hands like a club, and whacked the queen across the back with it. The cane broke in two, and the queen went face first to the pavement, her/his wig flying off into the gutter._

_"Come on," Matt said, grabbing Mello's hand. "Let's get out of here."_

_The took off down the street, taking a right at the first intersection. Behind them, they heard the queen's voice trailing after them. "You'll pay for that, Carrot Top, you and your little blond bitch of a boyfriend." _

_Mello and Matt didn't stop running until they were several blocks away, then they leaned against a wall, out of breath but laughing._

_"You sure know how to show a boy a good time," Matt said. He pulled his game out of his back pocket, the screen now cracked and the casing broken. "That damn queen broke my game."_

_"Oh, you poor baby. In case you didn't notice, she also broke my head."_

_"Here, let me make it better." Matt leaned forward and kissed Mello gently on each temple then the crown of his head, before honing in on Mello's lips for a warm, lingering kiss. "How's that?"_

_"Better, but not great."_

_Matt smiled. "Guess I'll have to nurse you back to health over the next few days, huh?"_

_"How very Florence Nightingale of you."_

_After another quick kiss, the two clasped hands and strolled off toward home._

End Chapter 5.

_  
Note: the beginning dialogue from the 'play' rehearsal includes actual text from the play, 'Mary Stuart.'_ _Yours truly saw this play in London in the Seven Dials, but, even though the Unicorn Theatre is real, the one in this piece is just an amalgam of various theatres around London. This scene also includes song lyrics from "Grace Kelly" by Mika.  
_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: The Switch and the Spur

He was staring into the eyes of a skull.

A silver skull, one with strange swirling patterns etched across it, patterns which shifted and wavered and danced with the inconsistency of his own blurred vision. He blinked lazily and squinted, trying to focus: yes, there was the grim reaper holding a scythe, Adam and Eve fleeing the garden, skeletons cantering. Horrible images, really. He closed his eyes again; his head was throbbing, pounding inside his own skull with a merciless, drum-like rhythm, and he realized, upon listening, that the pounding was being accompanied by the back-beat of a ticking clock. _Tick, tick, tick. _Something cold and hard pressed against his forehead, and he felt vaguely nauseous. In fact, his whole body was crying out with numerous, minor protests of pain.

Maybe he had died and gone to hell. . .

"I think we may have made a miscalculation." Ah, the sound of church bells.

Mello's shoulders shook with silent, mirthless laughter. Stuck in hell with Near. Well, that was too perfect. That was too fitting. Mello opened his eyes again, and focused on the skull, the object grinning at him from a place on the floor about five feet away. He raised his hand toward it and hit metal, and he realized his head was pressed against some bars. Slowly, painfully, he struggled into a sitting position, his swimming vision taking in the area around him: he was stuck inside of a cage. Or more precisely, a dog kennel. Mello started laughing again, snickering, the sound intrudingly, offensively loud in the dim, closed-in area.

"What's the matter with you?"

Near sat on the ground, not because he wanted to, but because the roof of the kennel was so low that he couldn't stand without hitting his head. He sat calmly, legs tucked beneath him, regarding Mello with an odd expression, an expression that was only half visible in the weak light which filtered in from two high, small windows. Mello stopped laughing long enough to study their surroundings. In the dimness, he could see racks, all chock-a-block full of clothing, a full length mirror, and a long changing table. So they were still inside the theatre, backstage in the dressing room. In a cage. Mello clasped his head and groaned.

"Oh, my fucking head. . ."

Mello leaned his head into the criss-crossed bars, savoring the coolness. His eyes alighted on the skull again, and he realized that the obnoxious ticking sound was coming from it. "What the fuck is that?" he said, pointing to it. The skull grinned at him maliciously.

"Mary Queen of Scot's skull pocket watch. She had it made just before she was sent to the Tower. It is considered an early example of a 'Memento Mori,' an artistic reminder of one's own mortality--"

"--I don't need a full history lesson here, okay? What I mean is, what is it doing on the ground there?"

"I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be our next clue. . . if we ever get out of here, that is."

"Or maybe it's a friggin' bomb." Mello pulled on the bars, testing their strength. He then turned his attention to the kennel door: padlocked. Mello began searching wildly around him:

"Hey, those assholes took my coat!" Which meant that his lock-picking pins were gone, too. He banged his head on the metal bars in frustration. Near just sat looking at him, saying nothing.

"We're stuck," he concluded. Mello turned and looked at Near, and for the first time that day, a genuine feeling of guilt managed to creep its way into his psyche, curling up and taking residence like a parasite, an unwanted guest. "I'm sorry Near," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have let them provoke me like that. But. . . I did, and now you're stuck here, too."

"It's because you let your emotions rule your actions," said Near. It wasn't an accusation, and there wasn't even the slightest hint of reprimand, of censure, in his voice as he spoke. Mello knew that if the tables had been turned, he would be screaming bloody murder right now. But no--Near was as calm as ever: a sturdy, unshakable ship, solid as logic, on a stormy sea. "That is your primary weakness. It has _always_ been your primary weakness."

"I know."

Mello bowed his head at this admission. He didn't need Near to tell him that. The bad part was, he knew that his emotions always got the better of him, and yet he still did nothing to check them. He couldn't stop his own wayward feelings. _Save me from myself._ If Near had the tiniest inkling as to what Mello was _really _like, what he got up to when he went out at night, then other boy would be disgusted, horrified. He would--

"Mello. . ."

Mello had both hands over his face, shaking his head back and forth in an effort to dispel the evil, chaotic thoughts that were squirming, festering like maggots inside his own mind. This was an awful situation. Awful! And as usual, it was all his fault. All his.

"Mello. . ."

Suddenly, Mello felt fingers around his wrists, gently prying his own hands away from the sides of his head. Mello stared at Near, who now sat directly in front him, not a foot away, and Mello felt his own eyes widen involuntarily at the breech of personal space. His heart pounded wildly in his chest. _Tick, tick, tick._ Mello watched, still as earth, as Near leaned into him, his hand reaching forward to grab his rosary, his face so perilously close. . .

Near yanked hard on Mello's rosary, hard enough to break it, sending scarlet beads clattering to the ground like shiny drops of blood. Mello was frozen, mouth hanging open, shocked. Near began pulling the rosary apart; specifically he separated out the wires which held it together, his face determined, locked in concentration, the way it always looked when he was intent on solving a puzzle. He smiled in triumph as he came up with two workable metal pieces. "Here," he said to Mello, holding up the wires. "You can pick the padlock with this." Mello stared dumbly at the other boy's two hands. Yes, he could pick their way out with those, and he should have been elated, because now they were going to get out, and yet, what Mello felt most intensely at that moment was--

_Disappointment._

_

* * *

_

_Mello gently closed the door to Matt's room behind him, his hands careful, determined to not make any noise that might alert anyone else in the house. His palms still stung from where the drag queen had shoved him into the sidewalk, and he winced at the contact. The hall on the second floor was dark, silent. Mello moved quietly toward his own room; it wouldn't be prudent for him to fall asleep in Matt's, because Roger would have more than just a cow if he found him there in the morning. Even though Mello wanted to stay with Matt, who had been so attentive, so perfect toward him since they had left the club that night. Even though Mello didn't want to return to the cold, unbearable loneliness of his own bed._

_Mello paused as he saw a shaft of light glowing, like a filmy halo, from under the crack beneath Near's door. That glow called to him, like a sweeping lighthouse beam from a darkened, rocky shore. Maybe it was the lingering alcohol in his system, or maybe it was the memory of all the violence that had taken place earlier in the evening, but Mello suddenly felt emboldened enough to go up to that door, to go up to it and knock softly, hesitantly. He waited there, breath held, like a man awaiting judgement._

_"Come in," said a tiny voice._

_Mello quietly opened Near's door and went inside. His room looked as it always did: the floor was littered with puzzles and lego towers and books and games. A single lamp was lit on his bedside table. In the round cocoon of its beam Near sat, luminous like a firefly, in the middle of his bed, his hands working methodically on a 7 x 7 x 7 Rubik's cube. Twenty-one squares per side. The cube was almost completed._

_"You're up late, Mello," Near commented in a low voice. Twist, crank, twist._

_Mello approached the bed and slid over the covers to lay near the bottom. He watched as Near swiveled the last colored square into place, completing the puzzle. Then the other boy carelessly tossed the finished cube aside; it bounced once on the comforter then fell off the side of the bed and onto the floor, forgotten. Near then turned to look at Mello, who didn't--couldn't--meet his eyes. Instead, like a blind, drowning man clawing his way back onto the seashore, he crawled slowly upward, inch by careful inch, until his head came to rest on the other boy's stomach. He waited to see if those pale, small hands would push him away. When they didn't, he cautiously wrapped his bare arms around that pajama covered waist, sighing into the soft material, feeling for one captive moment a sense of perfect, priceless peace._

_"Near, what happened to us?" Mello whispered into the pajama material._

_"What do you mean, us?"_

_Translation: I am not the one who changed. You are._

_Mello thought about this. How he used to lay with Near like this without hesitating when they were both little, maybe nine or ten years old, the two of them curling like kittens. Near was not the one who had changed. It was Mello. It happened about the time when he realized that they were competing against one another, that they were rivals. That Near, through no fault of his own, had become an enemy, an obstacle that had to be overcome. To be number one. That was when Mello had started to hate him._

_Mello stared at the wall. "I wish L were here."_

_"L has his hands full," came the soft voice from above him._

_Too full to deal with Mello, to deal with Mello's unstoppable, ugly spiral into darkness. Like a ship being sucked into a whirlpool. L was the only one whom Mello had ever listened to; L was the one whom Mello admired, wanted to be like: to be that smart, that daring, that in command. If L could see what Mello had turned into, then he would no doubt bow his head in shame._

_Mello hated that image._

_"I hope L brings back Kira's head on a plate," growled Mello. Then, on impulse, he said:_

_'Near, what is your real name?"_

_A long sigh sounded from above. "So you would have me disobey L's directive to tell you that?"_

_Near knew that Mello would never disobey a direct order from L._

_"No," answered Mello in a whisper. Mello would follow L without question, always. L, and maybe, possibly, one other. But only if that other would show him something, give him some sign that he felt something, anything. . ._

_"Mello, if L fails to bring down Kira, then you and I must be ready--"_

_You and I. . ._

_"What are you saying?"_

_Near shifted beneath him. Mello still avoided meeting the other boy's eyes directly. "I'm saying that we must be prepared for all possible outcomes. We must be prepared for the possibility that L may not be the victor in this--"_

_"No!" Mello felt his emotions surge; his angry denial came out far too loud for the gentle, quiet comfort of this golden-lit cocoon._

_"Mello. . ." He felt Near's hands grabbing at his own; he realized then that he had been clutching the other boy too tightly, tight enough to bruise. Once again, he had let his emotions carry him away, into a darkened alcove of unwarranted violence._

_"Mello, what happened to your hands?" There was just the tiniest hint of concern in that cold, unflappable voice, just enough to make Mello twist his head around and stare at the other boy. Near still had Mello's hands trapped in his own. He held up the dried, bloodied palms, his face questioning._

_"I fell," Mello answered lamely. _I fell because a crazed, jealous drag queen ambushed me with an anvil of a purse on Oxford Street._ Of course, there was no way that Mello was going to tell him that. Mello lay frozen as Near's large, questioning eyes bore into his own. What are you feeling? thought Mello. Why can't I ever tell? Why don't you ever show emotion? But then again, maybe Mello was going about this all the wrong way. Whenever Mello sought to provoke any kind of reaction from Near, it was usually with some random act of petty violence, some unplanned form of maliciousness. And those provocations almost always never worked. Near was that unshakable, like a locked fortress. But maybe, maybe, if he altered his mode of attack. . ._

_Mello pried his wrists from Near's grip and and tangled both hands in the other boy's unruly cherub's hair, straining upward. He watched Near's eyes widen in surprise, surprise that was quickly sliding into shock, shock gilded with the edge of something else, and that small flickering flame of emotion from him alone was enough to set Mello off, to give him hope, like kindling for a torching, that maybe, maybe something brighter, hotter burned somewhere underneath--_

I would gladly follow you if you would only show me you felt something. . .

_It turned into a struggle. Near was pushing at him, turning his face away. _Yield to me, goddam it! _"Mello!" And there was a trembling sound in that voice that caused Mello to stop, to stop and look the other boy directly in the eyes. Only Near's eyes weren't on him; they were looking over his shoulder, toward the doorway. Mello turned his head in that direction. A shadow stood in the door frame. It was tall, and lanky, and utterly unmistakable. . ._

_Matt!_

_"You forgot your coat," said Matt in a cold, hard voice. He flung Mello's black leather trench so hard that it hit Mello in the face. "Don't let me interrupt you."_

_"Matt, it's not what you think!" Ah, famous last words, those. _But if it wasn't what he thought, then what was it?

_Matt turned and vanished from the doorway. Mello sat on the bed by Near, mouth gaping open, shaking. Mello turned his head toward Near. The other boy had picked up a second cube from the bedside table, a 20 X 20 X 20 one this time, and was swiveling the colored squares around, Mello's presence there seemingly all but forgotten_. _Then he said casually, without looking at Mello:_

"_You should go after him."_

_Mello felt the rage of angels descend over him. "Goddam both of you!" he screamed, smacking both of his hands down on the comforter, savoring the electric-shock of pain it caused him. Near paused in his puzzle to stare at him._

_"You think I'm just another puzzle, don't you?" accused Mello._

_The other boy didn't answer._

_Mello jumped off the bed as if it had been set on fire, staggering backwards. "Goddam it, I hate you! _Hate _you!" Mello stumbled from the room, enraged. But with whom? Was it Matt? Or was it Near? The wicked little voice in the back of his head had no trouble in discerning the truth: Both! With Near, for so casually, coldly dismissing this whole ugly incident, and along with it, Mello's unrequited, unacknowledged feelings. And with Matt, for coming in and interrupting Mello, when he was just about to lay siege to what was no doubt virgin territory. For that, the both of them could burn in hell._

_Mello slammed his fist into the hallway plaster, hard enough to crack it. He watched the wounds in his hands reopen, the blood beading to the surface. Always the surface--never what was underneath._

_Goddam it all, anyway._

_End Chapter 6._

_Chapter note: this was all Effort this time (as if you didn't know)._


	7. Chapter 7

_A special thanks to all of those who have reviewed this piece: you can have hugs and kisses and other bits of ephemera that will not actually cost me anything (for I am, as always, completely broke). And an extra special deluxe thanks to Just Funning, whose last writing contribution to this fic. can be found in this chapter._

Chapter 7: Clocks

"Well, I kind of like it," said Mello, dangling the sinister-looking pocket watch in front of his face. Thanks to his criminally-inclined fingers, they had gotten out of the cage and then out of the theatre altogether, exiting through the back door they had originally come through. "Too bad it's not the real thing."

"We need to get a hold of the real thing. Otherwise, why put that note in there?" Once they had gotten out of the cage, Near had immediately scooped up the watch and, prying open its jaws to get at the actual clock inside, a note had fallen out with a single word written on it:

_Fake._

"The real watch is in the horological museum inside the Guildhall. Which is in Cheapside." The two boys moved at a brisk pace up Long Acre, heading in the general direction of the Covent Garden tube station. The sky had opened up again and was spitting, casting down random, annoying drops of rain that was just enough to dampen everything in their midst. Mello wished he had his rain coat back.

"We're being manipulated here," commented Near in a low, angry voice.

_No shit, _thought Mello. What he actually said was: "Do you think it was. . . too easy? How we got out of there?"

Near narrowed his eyes, thinking. Mello could practically hear the gears of thought squeaking inside that big head of his. "It's not that. It's this 'game' that we're playing. It's obviously rigged. I. . . I don't think it's possible for us to win it."

_If you can't beat the game, you're nothing but a loser. . ._

"This is more than just a 'game,' Near. It's Matt. Or are you saying that I should just forget about him?"

The double meaning of that sentence was not lost on Mello.

"No," said Near, and for once, the other boy actually looked stressed, uncertain. Mello found he didn't care for that look--not from Near--not in this situation. He needed the other boy's certainty like air to breathe. "No. It's just. . . I can't see a possible solution to this. The outcome of it. Not one that will come out in our favor, anyway."

And Near always had the solution to the puzzle.

Without warning, Mello shoved Near hard enough to cause him to fall, to fall and take a well-dressed gentleman in a suit and tie down with him. The two of them folded like a deck of cards onto the busy sidewalk. Again, Near's face registered absolute shock, and he was about to start stammering out a litany of heartfelt apologies to the strange man he'd practically been thrown into, when Mello promptly intervened:

"I'm sorry, sir! My little brother here is the clumsiest creature on the planet. Born with two left feet," he helped the other man to his feet, his face filled with a faux concern, concern wrapped with a hint of chastisement, as he addressed his little 'brother.' "Why can't you watch where you're going?" he snapped. Near just stood there with his mouth hanging open. Mello's mouth quirked upward in an evil grin as he peered at Near from over the other man's shoulder.

Near's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he realized what Mello was up to.

"I'm okay--just. . . let me go on. Alright?" The man in the suit picked up his fat, fallen laptop bag and started backing away, his eyes sweeping Mello's leather outfit with obvious distaste. He turned and fled up the busy street, his brown trench coat blending into the crowd, lost in a sea of pedestrians and just as easily forgotten.

"Sorry, _sir_!" Mello called out sarcastically. Then, without speaking, he whirled on his heel and started again for the tube station. Near practically had to run to catch up with him. Once he got there, he said:

"So how much did you get?"

Mello riffled through the man's wallet as he walked, without slowing his pace. "Bingo. Look--oyster card!" he held up the blue and white card in triumph. He watched Near's face. "Don't look at me like that--all my shit was in my coat, remember?"

"But _none _of that originally belonged to you," Near pointed out.

"Hey, special circumstances call for special solutions. And you're all about the solution, right?" They came up to the tube station entrance and Mello chucked the man's now empty wallet into a trash bin. They descended the dirty concrete steps into a yellow-lit, man-made dinginess.

"You could have warned me," complained Near.

Mello sighed and rolled his eyes as they cantered down the steps.

"Jesus, I thought we had this conversation already. . ."

* * *

All the buildings near the Guildhall were blindingly white and Romanesque in appearance. Not as many people roamed the streets here as they did around Leicester Square and Covent Garden. Mello and Near were quite alone as they moved past the Lord Mayor's mansion, walking briskly in the long shadow of its immense stone walls and elegant Corinthian columns. The two boys padded across the street in the direction of the massive Guildhall, passing, every now and then, random pieces of the old Roman wall that were left littered around the place like pieces from a giant's jigsaw puzzle that had been dropped from the sky. In the medians, near daycare playgrounds, in church back lots, the puzzle pieces sat, too fragile, too valuable to be moved, and so they remained where they were found, like untouchable meteorite detritus from outer space. Valuable, rocky, and mostly ignored.

Mello and Near crossed the wide courtyard which led to the front of the Guildhall Museum. Along with the clock collection, there was also an adjoining art gallery and a library. Sliding glass doors parted and allowed them entrance into the museum's understated, carpeted lobby. A young woman in a dull, dove grey pantsuit was manning the front desk, and she glanced up once from her desk, only to do a double take as her curious gaze alighted on Mello and Near. Her mouth fell open a little a she watched the two boys push their way through the double doors of the clock museum. Mello gave her a flirty little smile and wave as he disappeared into the fluorescent, inhuman whiteness of the museum.

"Can't you at least try and not draw attention to us?" whispered Near after witnessing Mello's little flirtation.

Mello snickered. "You're joking right?" Now that he'd lost his coat, Mello was beyond conspicuous. His sleeveless zippered vest didn't even meet the top of his leather pants, all perfect and perilously low-slung, the whole she-bang held in place by the gravity-defying good graces of a studded belt crowned by a large, silver-cross belt buckle. Mello took his religious symbols seriously. Near gave him the once over and sighed.

"You're right--you're about as inconspicuous as a Soho street hustler."

Mello burst out in bright, hardy laughter. "That's a good one--but you shouldn't talk about my second job like that! And what would you know about Soho street hustlers anyway?"

"Just being observant, is all," said Near, and Mello thought he could detect the hint of a smile in the other boy's face.

"Hey you two--keep it down!" This came from a craggy-faced security guard who had been, until that moment, as still and as an unobtrusive as a statue in the corner. Mello gave him the evil-eye as he and Near casually meandered by glass case after glass case filled to the brim with oddly shaped time pieces. Mello kept his cat eyes trained on these various crow's nests of shiny, ticking objects, scanning, his green gaze on the lookout for the unmistakable silver skull. After a moment, he felt Near's hand on his arm.

"There."

The skull was housed in a free standing glass column that rose up like an aquarium made for metal fish from the floor. Mello stood on one side of the case, and Near on the other. Near's face looked at his through the wall of glass, questioning. "So what do we do now?"

Mello lifted a gloved hand to the glass. "Fuck. There has to be a way to get--"

"I said, keep it down in here! And keep your hands off the glass!" The cranky security guard had edged closer to the two boys, and Mello looked around them then, and he realized that the three of them--he, Near, and the security guard--were all alone together in the tiny museum. A diabolical thought hit his brain like a frying pan, causing him to turn to the guard and say with a snarky tone, "And what are you going to do about it if we don't?"

Near's eyes widened with an expression which clearly said: "What are you doing? Have you gone insane?"

The security guard advanced on Mello, his threatening frame towering over the young boy's by at least a good six inches. "What am I going to do? I'll tell you what I'm going to do--I'm going to haul your delinquent ass out of here, that's what! I don't like the looks of you, _kid_."

"Is that so?"

"That's so!"

"Ah, well--that's too bad," Mello purred seductively, reaching up to touch the security guard's face with his leather-gloved hand in an overtly intimate gesture. The guard, his attention drawn by this, stared at the hand as if it were a live tarantula.

"What the fuck--" The guard never got to finish his sentence, because Mello, as quick and as fluid as lightning, had grabbed the nightstick form his belt with his other hand and bashed him on the side of the head with it. The man had barely hit the floor before Mello turned his attention to the glass case holding the skull pocket watch, bringing the club down with crashing force onto the glass. It smashed into pieces, raining small bits down everywhere like shimmering drops of diamonds. Somewhere in the distance, an alarm sounded. Without hesitation, Mello reached in and took the watch, shaking off pieces of broken glass as he did so. Then he grabbed Near's arm and turned and yelled:

_"Run!"_

* * *

_Mello strolled along the Thames, the late afternoon light glinting off the water as a slight breeze stroked his face like a lover's fingertips. He was nearing the footbridge that would take him across the river to the London Eye with all the living statues (or people with too much time on their hands, as Mello thought of them). This wasn't his destination, however. He was headed to Cleopatra's Needle, an actual Egyptian obelisk bookended by two sphinxes, as well as the site of countless suicides. It was one of his favorite spots in the entire city, and he could sit in the park area which surrounded it, take in the distinctive architecture, and think. About his feelings for Matt, which wavered between affection and annoyance. Much like his feelings for Near. Why couldn't he ever have simple, straightforward feelings for anyone?_

_His thoughts were interrupted as a long, sleek black limousine glided to a stop at the curb next to him. The windows were darkly tinted, as if those inside thought themselves too superior to allow the common people to even look upon them. Mello considered the car for a few seconds then continued on his way, assuming it had nothing to do with him._

_Until the very back window rolled down and he heard his name called._

_Mello turned suddenly, immediately on the defensive. He stared at the face that stared back at him, framed by the window. There was something familiar about that spiky hair and those round glasses, but full recognition hovered just out of reach._

_"There he is, the Little Bluffer himself," said the young man inside the limo. "Spent that fortune you cheated from Hector yet?"_

_Ah, now recognition came. Puck, the cocky hotshot from the poker game. "I didn't cheat," Mello said tersely._

_"Well, I suppose that depends on how one defines the term. You certainly showed yourself to have a lot of balls, if not smarts."_

_Mello bristled at the perceived insult. "I'll have you know I'm one of the top ranking students at Wammy's House."_

_"No. 1, are you?"_

_Silence was Mello's only answer._

_"Well, like most kids who are too smart for their own good, you seem like something of a mischief maker. I heard about your skirmishes at the nightclub evening before last."_

_"How did you--"_

_"Never mind that," Puck said with a flip of his hand. "You just seem to have a nose for trouble. I bet poor Roger has his hands full trying to keep you in line."_

_Mello narrowed his eyes, and if he were a cat his fur would be standing on end. This guy seemed to know an awful lot about Mello, too much. "You know Roger?"_

_Puck smiled, but only with his lips; his eyes remained flat and appraising. "I do. You see, I was a student at Wammy's House myself not too long ago."_

_"Really?"_

_"Indeed, No. 2, just like you. At least until an unfortunate incident necessitated my leaving."_

_Mello nodded, getting a bad vibe off Puck, like a whiff of rotten eggs. He started edging away from the limo. "Well, thanks so much for that extra special glimpse into your life. I really need to be going now."_

_"I don't think so," Puck said, his voice full of the authority of one who doesn't ask but orders. "I think you'll be getting in this limo and taking a little ride."_

_Mello laughed and flipped the young man the bird. "No thanks, you'll have to find your next trick elsewhere."_

_Puck was not amused. "Do you think this is a request? Do you not know who I work for?"_

_"Look, it's been fun gabbing with you and all, but I've had just about--"_

_"Silence, boy!"_

_Mello froze at the sound of a second voice inside the limo. A feminine voice, but nothing soft to it. It was hard-edged, commanding, sharp like a steel blade, a voice that wouldn't be denied or defied. He knew who it belonged to even before he saw the fall of fiery red hair and the pale face that leaned forward over Puck's shoulder. Zelda. _

_"Get in," she said, brooking no argument. Puck opened the door, and it looked to Mello like the yawning maw of some giant sea beast ready to devour him in a single bite._

_"I really have to go," Mello said, finding himself trembling under Zelda's intense gaze. "I'm expected..."_

_"This won't take long," she assured. "Our business with you will be concluded shortly, I guarantee it."_

_Mello felt his feet shuffling toward the limo against his better judgment, as if Zelda's eyes emitted a tractor beam that was drawing him in. He forced himself to stop. "What is this about?"_

_"It's about you, Little Bluffer," Puck said. "You've attracted the attention of certain people."_

_Mello glanced around to see if anyone was near, but he seemed very much alone._

_"No more dawdling," Zelda said, holding out her hand. "Now come with us."_

_Mello felt ample amounts of trepidation, but he also had to admit to equal amounts of curiosity. Besides, he had a blade strapped to his calf; he was confident he could take care of himself if it came down to it._

_With one glance back toward the Needle, thinking for a brief second he saw something falling from the top, he climbed into the limo._

_The door shut, the window rolled up, and the car pulled away from the curb._

End Chapter 7

_You know, boys and girls, sometimes working on this fic. feels like a tree falling in a vast wood where no one can hear it_. . . _hmmmm. . .  
_


	8. Chapter 8

_Okay, let's see. . . what do we have for this chapter: some unwarranted, protracted sexual tension, a riddle, and an Alfred Hitchcock-type wrought iron spiral staircase in a tiny enclosed space. Sounds like a party. . .  
_

Chapter 8: Stairway to Heaven

"Hey, honey--_catch_!"

Mello flung the fake watch in the direction of the girl working the desk, who fumbled the object until it tumbled to the floor. Mello and Near raced by her, through the sliding glass doors, and cut a hard left through the courtyard. "Faster!" yelled Mello. Near looked almost ready to pass out; his face was red and he was breathing hard. _He really needs to get more exercise, _thought Mello.

But then, Near didn't spend as much time running from trouble as Mello did.

The two boys came to a deserted fenced-in daycare playground that was dotted with what looked like giant hamster tubes painted in primary colors. Mello, without hesitation, grabbed onto the fence and climbed up. Near stumbled to a halt, looking chagrined.

"I can't--I can't climb it."

"Yes you can! Now get your ass up here!"

Near cautiously hooked one his Chuck Taylors into the bottom rung.

"Hurry up!"

Near slowly, with effort, began to crawl up the side of the metal fence. Mello, sitting astride the top with the perfectly coordinated balance of a black cat, reached down and snagged his pajama top, pulling. Before he knew it, he'd pulled the shirt half way over the other boy's head.

"Mello!" Near muttered from inside his shirt.

"Stop being a pussy Near and _climb_!" spat Mello through gritted teeth.

"Stop yelling at me like a damn drill sergeant!"

Mello gave the other boy one last violent tug and the two of them spilled over the side, landing on the ground in a black and white, yin-yang heap of splayed arms and legs. The pocket watch landed next to Mello's head and Near was all but covering him. Near pushed off from Mello's chest, his expression breathless as he said, "S-sorry!"

Mello lay frozen on the ground beneath him, watching the other boy's conflicted face with the intensity of a hawk in the sky. Both boys looked at one another, and it seemed as if time had stopped (when it was, in fact, ticking away right next to them). Then Mello said:

"You said 'damn'."

Near just blinked at him.

"You never curse."

"Well. . . I blame it on the negative influence of the company that I have been recently keeping." Mello burst out laughing at this.

"Jacking that watch was completely _awesome!" _said Mello between laughs.

"You thought that was fun?"

"Hell, _yes_! Didn't you? Just a little? C'mon! It was a special moment. A boy will always remember his first heist. . ."

Near just looked down at Mello, his expression serious, considering. Then he slowly, hesitantly, lifted his hand, his pale fingers brushing back Mello's damp, messy hair from his eyes. Mello stopped laughing and froze, going as still as a marble column beneath the other boy's feathery touch. "You're different when you're happy," said Near in a whisper. And then: "Beautiful."

_Beautiful._

Mello's eyes widened at the admission. He remained perfectly still as the other boy's fingers trailed down his face, sensing that any sudden movement from him would scare the other off, like a shy doe drinking at a spring, ready to bolt in a single moment. Mello's heart was thumping wildly in his chest, outracing the ticking sound he could hear by his head. _Tick, tick, tick._ His voice sounded strangled as he said, "Near."

"Don't move," the other commanded, his voice surprisingly sharp.

Mello fought to remain still. The whole world had swirled into a insane, surreal prism of primary colors: here he was lying on a playground, in the late afternoon light, with a stolen museum artifact on the ground next to him. And Near was there, straddling him, actually _touching _him, and it had to be some kind of twisted, demented dream. Somehow, somewhere he had stepped into a rabbit hole, had fallen down into wonderland. And wonderland was apparently made up of giant yellow, red, and blue tubes, and creepy skull watches.

Mello closed his eyes, breathing heavily, feeling Near's hands sliding lower, tantalizing in their innocent perusal. Down his neck, over the zippered enclosure of his vest. Fingers that worked on a scorched earth policy, leaving nothing but trails of fire and longing in their wake. "Near. . ."

Maybe it wasn't Near who needed to yield.

"_Shhhh_. . ."

Mello trembled violently under his self-imposed restraint. Meanwhile, Near's light touch was skirting the hem of his vest, and the exposed flesh there. _He has to know that he's driving me completely insane--he has to!_ It took everything Mello had to not just grab the other boy's hand and shove it down the front his pants right then and there. And willpower had never been his strong suit. Without conscious thought, Mello arched into that virginal touch, like a dog pushing its head into its master's hand for affection. He opened his eyes to look at the other boy. Near was watching him, studying him, his face seeking, intent--

_ Like he was trying to solve a puzzle._

The shriek of sirens closed in from the distance.

Mello's eyes widened at the sound. "Uh-oh."

Near snapped out of the strange, insanity-induced fever dream that had been holding them both in place, and he clambered off of Mello and into a standing position. "We should go," he said in a trembling voice.

"I agree," replied Mello, his voice also shaking, and then he grabbed the watch from the ground and the two of them took off, away from the weird, primary-colored playland.

* * *

The two of them didn't stop running again until they had made it almost to the Barbican tube station. They sheltered themselves in a narrow brick lane, and with trembling hands, Mello pulled open the jaws on the watch. Another slip of paper came out into his palm, and he unfolded it, studying what was on it. His expression went blank as he looked at it. Then, without looking over at the boy standing next to him, he held out the clue: "Here--solve it."

Near stared at the piece of paper in Mello's hand as if it would bite him._ Well, considering what happened the last time he solved a written clue, why wouldn't he? _Near took the slip of paper from Mello's hands, careful not to touch in the exchange--Mello noted this, and it hurt, just as it hurt to notice that Near had been purposefully avoiding any kind of eye contact ever since the incident on the playground. _So what happens now? _thought Mello. _Do we just go on as if it never happened?_ _Like that night in your room? If Matt hadn't walked in, what would have happened?_

_The answer to that riddle would never be solved.  
_  
"It's a riddle," said Near, echoing Mello's thoughts. The paper read:

_I am one and  
I am the devil's number  
I am the devil's element  
I am a stairway to heaven  
dedicated to death._

Near just stared at the paper, the late afternoon light slanting down on him to create a fuzzy, orange halo for his pale, messy hair. He reached one hand up and began twirling an orange-tinted piece of it around and around his index finger.

_ Around and around. . ._

Again, Mello thought he could see big brass gears turning inside the other boy's head. If Mello actually took a moment, took a moment to sweep aside his own irrational jealousy, then he might actually admit to himself that what Near did was _amazing_, the way he just pulled order out of chaos, meaning out of nothingness, made functional symbols out of what looked like utter gibberish. Mello himself couldn't do it. And that was why he was doomed to always be number two, a step below Near.

Near handed the paper back to Mello.

"It's the 1666 Great Fire Monument," said Near. "There's a spiral staircase inside it that goes straight up three-hundred eleven steps." Mello watched as the other boy stilled, waiting.

Waiting for Mello's reaction.

"Alright then, I guess we're headed down by the river," said Mello.

And behind them, framed by the alley's entrance, the sun sunk lower, grew darker. And the skull watch ticked on mercilessly.

* * *

The two boys emerged from the tube station near Gracechurch Street. Across the web of ancient cobblestone streets, through the narrow glimpses and cracks of tall, aged brick buildings, the Thames could be seen, rolling along silently, eternally in the background. Black cabs and double decker buses swooped by on a curved lane. Mello and Near headed down the street, toward the area housing the Fire Monument. In a square nearby, some skateboarders and footballers played, voices loud, radio blasting:

_Surrounded,  
Let's romanticize  
Our beloved memories_,  
_Surrounded,  
Let's demonize  
Our softest injuries,  
Surrounded,  
Can we get behind  
Distortion and liberties,  
Surrounded,  
We're surrounded,  
Spiraling. . ._

The boys rounded the corner of a tall, weathered white building, and suddenly the monument was there, stranded alone amongst the shadows of other structures, a single, pale narrow column stretching up into the sky. It was surrounded on all sides with yellow and black caution tape, and a large sign proclaiming: _Closed for Reconstruction_ warded people off. Mello shielded his eyes and looked at the circular observation platform at the top, situated just under a sculpted gilded urn of false fire, the sunlight glinting off of its gold finish like the surface of a lake. Nothing, and no one, could be see from the bottom. _It would be suicide going in there, blind like that, _thought Mello, and with that, he grabbed the yellow tape and dipped under it, approaching the monument.

"Don't go," called Near from behind him.

Mello kept on walking.

"You can't win this," the other boy stated flatly.

"And since when have I ever let that stop me?" said Mello without turning around. _I can't win against you, either, and yet I still keep on trying,_ thought Mello.

If the definition of insanity was doing the same things over and over and expecting different results, then Mello was stark raving mad.

Mello walked up to the monument's gated entrance and pulled on the metal caged door. It gave with ease beneath his hand. A feeling of foreboding hit him then, sending chills coursing down his arms like an electric current, chills that had nothing to do with the weather. But what choice did he have really? He thought of Matt then, of the way he had looked just a couple of nights ago, red hair splayed across the pillow, his forehead pressed against Mello's. God, he was an idiot. He did not deserve such loyalty, such affection. And as usual, he had been on the verge of fucking the whole thing up.

Well, he was going to make up for it now.

"Don't go in!" and Near was there, grabbing him by his arm, pulling him back.

"Let go!"

"No!"

"And just why, exactly, do you give a _damn?_"

Ah, the question to end all questions. . .

Near released his arm and stepped back, as if he'd been physically threatened. He remained silent, his face inscrutable as always. The calm, cool lake to Mello's raging, boiling spring. A spring that was quickly boiling over to a breaking point:

"What do _you_ want me to do, Near?"

Silence.

"Do you want me to break up with Matt?"

No change in expression.

Mello's shoulders shook with silent, poisonous laughter. "I can't believe I'm standing here doing this with you right now. I might as well be six-years-old, and send you a note that says 'do you like me, check yes or no.' Except that you wouldn't answer it--you never answer--"

"Do _you _want to break up with Matt?"

Mello blinked, not knowing how to answer that. Seconds ticked by. _Tick, tick, tick._

"As I thought," said Near_, _his tone suggesting that he had finally gotten the answer to another riddle. Mello moved toward him, and Near stepped back, and said,

"Don't."

"Why?"

"Stay back!"

Mello froze, his mouth hanging open in response. And then his eyes narrowed slowly, their sea green depths glittering ominously. "You're insufferable, you know that?" Mello spat suddenly, his hands flailing. "You only notice things, not people. It makes me crazy--_you_ make me crazy! I wish you'd burn in _hell_! Good god! You are one cold, hard_ bitch_, you know that--"

_Whack!_

And the two boys froze: Near with his mouth wide open and hand raised; Mello with his head hanging to the side, clutching his face where the other boy had struck him. A small, evil smile crept over Mello's face through the fallen veil of his hair:

"Well, that's progress, I suppose. I guess I deserve that, after that slap in Leicester Square. . ."

"Mello. . ."

"I'm going to go up inside the monument now. Don't follow. And don't try and stop me."

"Mello, I. . ."

Mello turned back to the monument then, moving toward its entrance. Behind him, Near said, in a trembling voice:

"Mello. . . has it. . . has it ever occurred to you. . . that what I always say about you and your emotions. . . that maybe, the opposite. . . might be true about me?"

Mello paused in the gated doorway, letting this information sink in. He said nothing.

And then he disappeared up the bottom steps of the spiral staircase, blending into the darkness like blackened smoke in a raging fire.

End Chapter 8.

_While I was writing this, a six feet tall bookcase collapsed behind me. I think fate was saying, "Hey, I know you're on vacation, but how about moving some books around? Yes?" Lovely._

_P.S. The song lyrics are from Silversun Pickups' "Surrounded (or Spiraling)"_


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Two Sides of the Coin

The echo from the wrought iron steps reverberated loudly in the small enclosed space of the monument as Mello climbed. There was no way that they--whoever this 'they' turned out to be--wouldn't hear his noisy approach. Round and round, and up and up he went, the turn of the stairs sharp, making him feel like he was going around some sort of demented maypole. _The fair maid who, the first of May, goes to the fields at break of day, and washes in dew from the hawthorn tree, will ever after handsome be. . ._

It was mostly dark inside, with tiny shafts of light filtering through the narrow slits of sporadically placed windows, windows like those found in a medieval siege tower. Mello glanced out one of these windows as he went and saw how far the sidewalk was beneath him--and still he wasn't halfway up. He could feel the strain in his leg muscles as he pounded upward. _Clank, clank, clank!_

_I'm coming Matt. . ._

And then Near's unbidden, obtrusive choir boy voice sounded in the back of his head: _"Did it ever occur to you that what I say about you and your emotions, that the opposite might be true about me?" _So the little shit had trouble expressing his feelings, eh?

Well, that wasn't good enough!

The more that Mello thought about it, the angrier he got. _Clank, clank, clank! _He felt like he was caught in some kind of weird, fucked up head game with the other boy, and it was one which Mello was tired of playing. It always seemed like whenever Mello was on the verge of getting anywhere with Near, the other boy would promptly pull back into that protective little turtle shell of his--closed off, silent, unresponsive. It was making him nuts. That whole episode on the playground just capped it for him--what the hell was the matter with_ him _anyway, allowing that little bastard to control him like that?

_"Don't move--"_

_"Near. . ."_

Obviously, Mello had sunk into some newly uncharted, pathetic level of desperation in order to let Near get to him in such a way. He had to be completely insane to allow himself to be driven to such depths. Matt was obviously better looking, had a way cooler personality, and was (gaming addiction aside) actually into Mello. So why had he just splayed himself out under Near at the first opportunity, like a whipped dog going belly up in surrender, with every single emotion so blatantly on display: yearning, hunger, desperation. And what emotion did Mello receive from him in return?

_Absolutely Nothing._

He was starting to think that the whole embarrassing episode had just been a cruel, malicious way for the other boy to vindictively torture him. But no, that didn't sound right. Malicious intent required too much emotion, and Near didn't do emotion. No, that wasn't like him at all. In fact, it sounded far more like Mello's own nasty style, except whenever Mello tried to turn it around on the other boy, he got absolutely zero response.

Or at least he thought he did.

Well, it was too late to go back and figure that out now. Mello was going to start paying more attention to Matt (when and if he got him back), and start treating Near the way he should be treated: as his enemy. A pesky obstacle in his path to becoming number one. Someone to be beaten at all costs. No, he had to stop confusing hate and desire--even though the evil little voice in the back of his head whispered that the two were matching figureheads on the same shiny, alluring coin: brutally intertwined, like mirror images. He had to put this ridiculous obsession of his in its rightful place. He had to learn to master his own tumultuous feelings, in just the way the other boy had accused him of not being able to. He had to--

_Forget him._

But could Mello actually do that? Even before puberty had hit and lit a match on the powder keg of mixed emotions that Mello had started feeling for his rival, hating the other boy had been almost like a daily ritual for him, an act of obsession, like going to confession or communion, and one he could not just see himself readily drop like a forgotten pebble down a long, dry well. That kind of hatred--misguided though it was--tended to linger on, was hard to get rid of, like creeping kudzu vines that were burned away, only to sprout up and return full force a few heartbeats later. The problem was, Mello _felt_ too much, _felt _too keenly, and the truth was that he _needed_ too much as well. He needed Matt's attention, and Near's attention, and apparently half of London's nightlife's attention, for good or for ill. He was like a sucking black hole of need, that hungry, that vast, and that unfillable. He wanted everything, all of it. He wanted Matt and Near. And when Near had asked him to give up Matt, he couldn't answer him. Because the truth was, he was such a despicable, needy bastard that he wanted them both.

And so his insatiable, irrational needs had brought him to an impasse.

Premeditated decision making had never been one of his strong suits. Mello tended to leap without looking, tended to act without thinking--he lived forever in the moment, made decisions on the fly, followed his heart--whatever his heart happened to be feeling at the time. Sometimes it worked out; sometimes it didn't. And he had a rather nasty suspicion that this would be one of the times that it didn't.

_Clank, clank, clank!_

The world was far below him now. Light slanted around him in arcs of burnt orange through the tall, narrow windows. Mello was breathless, having climbed nonstop for so long. He paused briefly in one of the tiny, almost non-existent alcoves by one of the siege windows, and saw, in the dull light, sitting on its shallow ledge--

A pair of yellow-tinted sunglasses.

Mello plucked up the sunglasses, staring at their sunny frames as if he expected them to speak. _A Memento Mori. _Wasn't that what Near had said the pocket watch was, a sort of reminder of one's mortality? That was how the sunglasses--Matt's sunglasses--looked to Mello. _A Memento Mori. _He stared at the sunglasses for a moment longer, then hooked them onto his vest and restarted his climb. He was getting nearer to the finish now.

Mello slowed to a creep as he rounded the staircase's final turn, stopping before the metal door leading out onto the observation deck. He paused, listening, but could hear nothing except the wind whipping around the tower, loud and mewling, like something out of a Gothic horror novel. It barreled against the enclosure of the iron staircase, creating a dark, metallic echo, as if he were standing inside a giant flute or some other musical instrument. He cautiously reached out to the door and pushed it open, the hinges squeaking loudly, too loudly for his comfort, as he allowed the wind to fling it the rest of the way open. Mello emerged from the security of darkness, out into the fading light of a day, and--

"Mello, you shouldn't have come!"

"Shut it, kid!"

The barrel of a gun--not entirely unexpected--was leveled at Mello's head. Mello gazed around him, taking in the various figures standing on the viewing platform. There could have been any number of familiar faces here, people he thought would have fit the bill perfectly for this, like--

Hector, or--

Puck, or--

Zelda, or--

Hank, or--

any of the other people he had managed to piss off or enrage during his nightly outings away from Wammy's House. But no. None of them were here. He slid his eyes to the side, checking out the man with the gun aimed at his head; he thought he might have been the man who'd been holding the guillotine rope back at the theatre. And the other one next to him--he'd been there as well. Another one of those sleek black and white suits. Mello smirked when he realized the guy he'd put a knife in was absent.

"Something humorous, young man?"

"Mello, why did you--_Ow_!"

"I said, shut it!"

Matt was down on his knees by the railing, watched over by another suit with a gun trained at his head, a gun which the other man used to whack him in the back of the skull. "No talking." Mello tensed, his eyes narrowing and teeth clenched in a fast-forming fit of rage.

"Better keep your eyes on junior there--he looks ready to do something stupid."

Mello's head swiveled around at this statement. The words had come from the same man who had asked him if 'something was humorous.' The man was slouching comfortably against the monument railing, his posture careless, as if this whole hostage situation with all the guns wasn't even taking place. He was dressed in an ordinary brown trench coat that whipped quietly around him in the wind, and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark, round sunglasses. He looked completely ordinary, unremarkable. And even though Mello couldn't see his eyes, he could feel the other man's gaze on him, studying him, in a way that Mello_ really_ didn't like.

"Wait, I remember you!" said Mello suddenly.

The man with the sunglasses tilted his head, "Do you now?"

"You're that guy I rolled on Long Acre."

The man laughed--a sound that was completely devoid of any humor--and clapped twice. "Bravo. You actually remembered that. I figured you'd gone through way too many marks to remember me. Perhaps you're more observant than I thought. . ."

"Who are _you_?"

"Me? Well, let's just say I'm the snake in the hen's nest."

"Come again?"

"The snake in the hen's nest. You know, if the mother hen stays away too long, then that leaves the eggs she's been sitting on wide open to predators. A snake can slither in and just swallow them whole."

"Are you calling me an _egg_?"

"Oh, good--you are following the metaphor. So you're not so dumb after all."

"_I'm_ not dumb."

"No. Reckless, yes. Impulsive, certainly. Self-destructive in the extreme--well, such are the charms of youth. But hardly dumb. Otherwise, L and Watari wouldn't have such high hopes pegged on you, _little egg._"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that L and dear Watari have left their little nest of eggs wide open to attack. And while I'd much rather be playing this game with L, well--I've had to make do with his heirs. And it's been a lot of fun, I must say. I'm totally impressed. Watching you muck your way through this maze of clues I've set up--well, it's been an absolute joy to behold!"

"You're crazy. . ."

"Takes one to know one. Which is why I chose you specifically, number_ two_. Playing around with a loose canon such as yourself--_way_ more fun than if I'd chosen number one. Now there's an egg that's really tough to crack. Speaking of which. . . here's number one now."

Mello whipped around at the sound of the door creaking open behind him. "Near! I told you not to follow me!" But there Near was, eyes wide, shoulders sagging--climbing all three hundred eleven steps couldn't have been easy for him--framed in the gloom of the doorway, pale hair and skin starkly luminous against the darkened entrance of the staircase.

"Come forward, number one, and join the party!"

One of the black and white suits standing near Mello grabbed the other boy and dragged him forward. "Put that one over there by number three," the unknown man nodded in Matt's direction. The suit forced Near onto his knees by the redhead. Mello just stared angrily at Near, his look saying, "_Why--why did you have to come up here? You knew there'd be trouble._" And Near, as usual, looked implacable, unshakable, even with the barrel of a gun sitting so close to his temple. His dark eyes revealed nothing. Meanwhile, inside, Mello was _screaming._

"So this is about you wanting to play some sick game with L?" said Mello.

"No, this is about the game that I'm playing with _you_. . . in L's place."

The man in the trench coat pushed off from the railing and strolled over to Mello. He lifted a hand to Mello's hair, grabbing a long strand, only to let it fall, piece by silkened piece, through his fingers. Even with a gun trained on him, Mello was having trouble staying still; everything within him urged him to _attack_; he wanted nothing better, in fact, than to clamp down on the man's hand with his teeth like some rabid, snapping dog. His whole body was shaking, quivering, but not from fear--no, it was from the violence that he wanted so badly to inflict on the insane, no-good piece of scum in front of him.

"I like you, number two. I really do." Mello watched as the man went back to his slouching position by the railing--his unseen gaze appeared to be studying the view, appeared to be looking out over the line of towering buildings and sweeping bridges to the flowing, majestic, dirty waters of the Thames. "You have such a slippery grip on morality, after all. And now you're hanging out with the likes of Puck and Zelda--well, tut-tut! What would the great and powerful L say about that, I wonder, if he actually knew--"

"Stop talking about L!"

"Oh, it makes you mad when I talk about L, doesn't it? Whenever I do, you start narrowing those pretty little eyes of yours in the cutest, most evil way. Like an angry little kitty-cat. Fine then. Let's go back to playing _our_ little game. A game which, after all, has been all about choices. So I'm going to give you a final choice to make--"

Mello felt a coldness begin to seep into his skin--

"--between number one and number three over here--"

A feeling of foreboding, of looming danger--

"--I'll give you a choice then: you can pick one--"

A sick, sinking feeling, more paralyzing, more immobilizing--

"--and the other, I'll have thrown off the top of this monument--"

More gut-wrenching than any feeling he'd ever experienced before. . .

"What?" whispered Mello in a numb voice.

"I said, you can choose which one of them gets thrown off this monument," repeated the man in the trench coat, his tone casual, as if they were discussing dinner options. "But choose wisely, because you don't get a second shot at this."

"Mello!" And then Mello looked at Matt, whose eyes had gone wild and imploring, his gaze a mirror for the terror which Mello felt overtaking him on the inside. And beside him was Near--Near whose gaze reflected nothing, not even the slightest reaction to the strange man's crazy decree. _How can he not be frightened? _thought Mello. _Is he really that strong?_

And then Mello thought, _What do I do?_

"I can't answer that!" cried Mello. "You can't be serious--"

"You think so?" said the man. "Well then--how about this? You choose one, or they _both_ go over--"

_"No!"_

"Yes, yes!"

_"No!"_

"Yes!"

"I can't!"

"Tick-tock. . . the sun's setting."

Mello grasped the sides of his head with both hands; his heart was pounding, trip-hammering at a breakneck pace. The wind whipped around him, howling in protest. _This is not happening! This is a nightmare!_ _I can't do this! I can't--_

"C'mon, number two--"

_Can't do it. . ._

"Hey, Mortimer. Go ahead and dump that redheaded kid over the side--"

"_Mello!"_

_"Nooooo!"_

_"_Well?"

And Mello slowly sank to his knees. He could feel the cold, hard barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head, its presence far less threatening than the consequences of the choice before him. He felt all control begin to crack--felt it crack and flee, as the treacherous weight of tears began to slowly slide down his face. His voice was barely above a whisper, its tone clouded with suffering, and he found himself begging, pleading: _"Don't do it. . ."_

"Then choose!"

Mello sat, head bowed, utterly defeated. He sat, listening: to the roar of the wind, to the chaotic flapping of the man's trench coat, to Matt's low, heartbreaking sobbing, and behind it, beyond it, the low, almost indiscernible hum of something far off in the distance. Mello went still, and then, with hesitation, he peered out from underneath his bangs, peered into the distance, and yes, it was there--

"--Okay, number two, time to make a decision. Or Ginger here's going over. . ."

Mello slowly lifted his eyes to his tormentor, eyes that had gone cold and flinty with resolve, and then, without emotion, he said:

"Very well then, _I'll choose_. . ."

End Chapter 9.

_You know, that might have been very naughty of me, just ending the chapter like that. But it's Funning's fault, too--I gave him two different endings and told him to choose between them. And no, there were no guns involved. . ._


	10. Chapter 10

_First off, I want to apologize for not having this out on Thursday (as promised). But work has been kicking my ass this week, and then there are those little things, like eating and sleeping and hygiene that get in the way, as well. But here it is, and I hope you expectant few enjoy it. . ._

Chapter 10: Effect and Cause

Winchester, England: a town that was just a short train ride away from London, a town green and lush and dominated at its center by the tall, sweeping spires of the large, looming Gothic cathedral for which the town was known, the cathedral of the same name. If one were to stand high up on St. Giles Hill, one could look out over the town, and feel himself swept back to medieval times: the view was dotted by the spires of the cathedral, pieces of forgotten castles, and buildings and structures from a time long past. Winchester was a picturesque city, a city ancient yet modern at the same time: it had a college, a large hospital, and a high street that was lined from top to bottom by brightly lit, welcoming, and thoroughly modern shops. And just a few steps away from these shops, in a small, cobbled lane which arched well away from the high street and its bustling array of constant, fervent activity, stood the solemn and imposing brick structure of Wammy's House, it's black iron gate standing, like an impenetrable wall of seclusion, between its occupants and the outside world.

Mello walked along the halls of the house, alone. He was wearing black jeans and a Ramones t-shirt, his face scrubbed clean, having gone from looking like a Soho street hustler (as Near had called him) to typical urban hipster in the blink of an eye. He stopped before a seemingly ordinary wooden door, and raised his hand to knock, but then hesitated. Nervousness and trepidation and anticipation threaded through him, rendering him, for the moment, completely immobile. He bowed his head and thought: _How should I do this? What should I say?_ But then there was no time to think about it, no time for any kind of mental rehearsal, because a voice--its tone strangely flat and nasally--called out to him from inside the room:

"Mello, are you going to stand outside the door all day, or are you going to come in? My time is valuable, after all."

Mello's head snapped up at that. There was no disobeying _that _voice, not ever. And so Mello grasped the knob and flung the door open. He strode into the room, his head held high in defiance, in confident pretense, ready to face his idol, his demi-god. . .

_L_. . .

L was sitting--or rather crouching--at a small, round breakfast table, the surface of which was currently covered in a multi-colored, sun-bright swirl of confectionery chaos. Mello took in the sheer volume of sweets and treats that had been laid out on the table: there were cheesecakes and cookies and cupcakes and other pastel, gooey, (and unidentifiable) items of a high-calorie, sugary nature. Watari, as always, stood at L's side: he was wearing a white apron, his hands busy building what looked to be an intricate ice cream sundae on a rolling cart topped by a silver serving service. He was bent over his task, his face serious, intent, as if he were in the middle of making art, not ice cream. It always jolted Mello to see Watari--a.k.a. Quillsh Wammy--serving L as if he were the man's butler, his handmaiden, his devoted servant. Serving him as if Watari was not, in fact, the owner of this mansion, a genius inventor in his own right, and rich beyond all imagining. Watari served L, and followed where ever L led. Such was the devotion that L inspired in others. Even from the rebellious, intractable Mello.

"Have a seat, Mello."

Mello took the chair opposite from L, his green eyes watching his idol carefully from across the yellow, pink, and white buffet that was spread over the table. L, dressed in his ever-present, unchanging wardrobe of faded jeans and white t-shirt, did not look at Mello, but rather at the treats laid out before him. His long, thin fingers stopped and hovered indecisively over a platter of cupcakes, before suddenly swooping down, like a predatory bird, into a neighboring dish of cookies, his nimble fingers latching onto a fat oval disc--a cookie, which Mello saw, had been made to look like a little panda bear--which L then popped whole into his waiting mouth. Smacking on the cookie, not bothering to finish it before speaking, L said, "Oh yes--this is for you." And from the middle of the sugary, pastel pile L pulled out a chocolate bar, which he flung across the table for Mello to catch.

Mello caught the bar with ease. He was touched by this small gesture, touched that L had remembered his own favorite treat. Of course, L always remembered _everything_.

Mello unwrapped the chocolate bar and loudly bit into the corner. The two of them sat in silence like that for several seconds--with both he and L savoring their favored sweets--before Mello finally broke the silence.

"I'm sorry about what happened on the roof of the monument!" he blurted.

L did not respond at first. Instead he reached over to Watari's silver service and grabbed the cherry from the top of the sundae, popping the pilfered treat into his mouth. Watari, without comment, replaced the cherry with another. Then L said:

"What are you apologizing for?"

"What I did was. . . reckless."

L continued eating, talking around his food. "It was certainly a gamble, what you did. Your approximate rate for success was somewhere between fifteen and seventeen percent, I would say. And yet you took the offensive and attacked--"

"--I_ knew _it was you in the helicopter," interrupted Mello.

"How?"

"Gut instinct."

"You seem to gamble on your gut instincts a great deal. Tell me, do you think the world's greatest detective would gamble on his gut instinct in such a way?"

"Absolutely," said Mello without hesitation.

L merely nodded at this. Mello couldn't tell if he was pleased with this response or not--L's eyes, as always, looked distant and dead. Then L said casually, "Even with Watari's extremely accurate sniping skills, you were still heavily outnumbered on the observation deck. If the others had not attacked with you, your offensive would have failed."

"But it didn't fail." And Mello felt an obvious smirk creeping its way onto his face.

"Which was very surprising, by the way. Near especially. I would have thought him one hundred percent incapable of such physical violence. And yet you proved me wrong on that account. Tell me, how did such a thing happen?"

"I. . . said something that made him react violently," said Mello, remembering. . .

_The wind was whipping viciously across the observation platform. Everyone there had gone completely still in morbid anticipation--waiting. And then Mello lifted his head, and said, his voice unwavering:_

_"Very well, then. I'll choose. . ."_

_And there was a hushed silence, a silence that was punctuated by the sound of the howling wind. The howl of the wind, and behind that, the distinctive fan-like hum of helicopter blades. . ._

_"I choose. . . Matt."_

"Really?" said L, his fingers plowing into the icy topping of a mint-green cupcake. "That is fascinating. Near almost never shows any kind of emotion. So this had to be another gamble on your part."

"Not exactly. I made the decision to provoke him based on some previously gathered data. . ."

_"Do you want to break up with Matt?"_

_And Mello was silent, without repsonse._

_"As I thought. . ."_

_And then: "You're insufferable, you know that? You only notice things, not people. It makes me crazy--you make me crazy! I wish you'd burn in hell! Good god! You are one cold, hard bitch, you know that--"_

_Whack!_

L turned to address Watari. "That is quite interesting. But still--what a reaction! I mean, if you told me that of all the kids in the house, Near would be the one to punch a guy in the balls like that--"

Mello interrupted L's words with a loud snicker.

L's spiky black head swiveled back in Mello's direction. "You found that amusing, Mello?"

"Extremely. In fact, in hindsight, the whole situation now seems rather. . . amusing."

"In hindsight, yes." said L.

"In hindsight, yes."

"But at the time. . . you did not, of course, realize that the entire situation was _fake_. Only a training simulation created by me in order to test you?"

And those words seemed to echo faintly, to hover in the air:

_"In order to test you. . ."_

"No," Mello answered honestly. "I thought it was completely real. And I took the whole thing seriously--_deadly serious._ And as a challenge from you, I still do. I _want_ to be your successor."

_I want to be number one. . ._

L nodded, but didn't comment further. "Very well. You may go now, Mello."

Mello rose from the chair and turned to leave. And then, from behind him: "Oh, and Mello--if you could please restrict your movements to the immediate township, I would greatly appreciate it." Mello paused before the door. _Ah, of course. He always--always--knows everything, _he thought. _How could it be otherwise? _And then Mello answered quietly, before the turn of the knob:

"Yes. . . sir_._"

Mello went outside and closed the door behind him. Closed it, and promptly pressed his ear against the wood. Inside, he could hear L and Watari talking.

"You don't think it was a bit much--the whole kidnapping situation?" said Watari.

"Watari, Mello and Near are both vying to be my successor." said L. "I can't let them take on, say, something like the Los Angeles BB murder cases without having tested them both out in the field first."

There was a long pause. "Why are you bringing up BB?" said Watari, and Mello could hear the concern coloring the older man's voice. "Is it. . . is it because he was from this house?"

"No. I brought it up because he was a very crafty, very calculating serial killer. Which is the type of situation that Near and Mello will have to deal with when--and if--one of them takes my place."

"L. . . about Mello. Shouldn't we be a bit more concerned about his recent behavior?"

There was another pause, and outside the door, Mello tensed, waiting. . .

"No," said L, his voice firm. "I have faith, that in the end, Mello will do the right thing."

Mello let his shoulders sag in relief.

Then L continued: "It's only his means that I'm concerned about. They tend to be dubious, and his penchant for violence is somewhat disturbing."

"Do you not think him fit to be a successor?" asked Watari.

Mello sucked in his breath and waited. He felt his hand close into a fist against the door. . .

There was a lengthy--and rather significant--pause, where Mello felt his whole world begin to teeter in the balance. It hung over the edge of a cliff; it wobbled on the edge of a roof top. And then L said:

"I have not yet made my decision."

And relief, like a breath of cool, soothing air, washed across Mello's skin. He didn't realized how tense he had been until he felt his fingers unbunch from their fisted position against the wood. Mello stepped away from the door, thoroughly reassured. It was not yet decided then; he had not failed in this. That judgement--or rather, lack of judgement--was like a gift from God himself.

He could still beat Near. He could still be number one.

Mello--a hopeful, secretive smile still lingering on his face--turned and walked away. He got as far as the turn of the hallway only to plow head-first into a ghost. No--not a ghost. But something white and spectral and haunting, just the same. His rival. It was almost as if by thinking the boy's name inside his own head, he'd summoned him here. Mello had been staunchly avoiding the other boy ever since that unfortunate incident on the monument platform. And now, those dead, dark eyes stared up at him, vacant and unfeeling, chilling even, eyes that belonged to those of a ghost just the same.

_"I choose. . . Matt."_

A part of Mello--a part that he was completely unfamiliar with--wanted to start pleading and stammering out apologies to the other boy. Wanted to tell him that he hadn't meant it, that it had all just been a ploy to get a reaction out of him. And then another part--the part with the inferiority complex and persecution complex and god complex and any other number of complexes--told him to stand his ground and _glare._ They were at war with one another, after all, and if the other boy got hurt in the fray--then so fucking be it!

The two of them stood there staring at one another in an awkward, protracted silence. It was like they were ten-year-olds, playing that old staring game, where you waited to see who would look away first. Dead, dark eyes bore into angry green ones. _Look away, you bastard! _thought Mello.

Mello was the first to drop his eyes to the floor. He couldn't take it, the complete lack of emotion he saw there. It was like staring into the surface of a frozen lake: that cold, that solid, that insurmountable. _You could crack it, _said a tiny voice in the back of his head. _The foundation underneath is not completely frozen, you know._

_Not completely frozen._ . .

"Near. . ."

Near said nothing, and he moved to quietly go around Mello, as if he were nothing more than a fixture, another inanimate object blocking his path, like a clock or a chair. Mello turned to watch him pass:

"Near. . . don't. . . don't hate me. . ."

The other boy paused then. Without turning around, he said, in a small voice, "I told you Mello, I've _never _hated you."

"But. . . what I said on the platform--"

"--was the truth, and nothing more."

His voice was even, soothing, like the distant peal of church bells. Mello found himself moving toward that sound, pulled by it, and suddenly he was behind the other boy, throwing his arms around him, holding him, just as he had that time in Leicester Square. And under the weight of this crushing embrace, Near remained as still and unmoving as a marble statue.

"Mello, you've always felt too much. Always. It makes you needy," said Near, his voice barely more than a whisper, a slight vibration that Mello could feel through his narrow back. "Like now--this gesture is more for your own comfort, rather than mine--yes?"

"I don't know," Mello muttered into the back of the other boy's messy hair.

"You_ do _know." And Mello felt Near's hands prying him loose, carefully, delicately, as if Mello were the fragile one--Mello, with his hardcore looks and steely glare and raging temper. It was Mello, not Near--who looked small and breakable with his anemic, sun starved skin, and over-sized white pajamas--who was really the fragile one. It was Mello who was at the mercy of every little feeling, who was constantly on the verge of just shattering into a million little pieces. Next to Mello, Near was as impenetrable as a rock, as solid as marble, as immovable as a mountain. Their appearances were completely deceiving, inverted. And Near, as usual, being the more perceptive one, saw the truth and named it for what it really was.

"I'm sorry," whispered Mello.

"You're only sorry because you can't make the situation turn out the way you want it."

Mello arched an eyebrow at this statement.

Near turned away from him again, turned and started down the hall toward the little breakfast room where L and Watari were waiting. And Mello, feeling his temper rising, as it always did whenever Near said something that was a little too close to home, said, "Why do you do that? Why do you always make everything _my_ fault?"

He got nothing but silence in response. And then Mello said:

"Why does everything out of your mouth have to be a _criticism_?"

Near paused in front of the wooden door, his hand hovering over the knob. "Is it a criticism if it's the truth?" he said calmly.

Mello was now good and comfortably pissed. "God, you _are_ completely insufferable! I never want to work with you again! I wish you'd fall off the face of the earth, you unfeeling little bastard! I _hate _you--"

"Good-bye, Mello," Near said, interrupting him, his tone as calm and unchanging as ever, as if he were addressing an old friend, as if Mello wasn't just standing there insulting him, ranting at him. Mello watched him turn the knob and enter the breakfast room, watched as the door clicked quietly shut behind him. And Mello just stood there, feeling empty, feeling let down, feeling cheated. . .

Cheated--

Cheated, because Near hadn't reacted to him at all. Not to his touch, not to his words--nothing. There had been nothing there for him to see, to feel, except for an undisturbed, frigid calm. Nothing. Mello felt chilled by the other boy's emotionless display. And maybe the whole thing really was his fault--everything, all of it. But this knowledge did nothing to comfort him, did nothing to soothe or assuage the feeling of loss that was now swimming around inside his gut like a cold, slippery electrified eel. Loss, because he felt certain, felt positive, that the frozen lake of Near's emotions had turned into something completely solid and unbreakable, never to be cracked by the likes of him ever again.

_His heart was completely frozen. _

"God, I _hate_ you!" Mello said in a shaking voice to the closed door. He allowed himself to gently fall into the waiting arms of anger. Anger, because loss and sadness and regret. . . well, those were emotions best forgotten. Anger was good. Anger was like going home. Anger was _fuel_.

Anger would be the thing to help him beat Near. Beat Near and--

_Forget him. . ._

End Chapter 10.

_Author's note 1: I love L. I think he's the greatest anime character ever, and I don't deserve to write him. I was scared to do it._  
_Author's note 2: I forgot to mention that since the refurbishment of the fire monument in 2007 (long after I'd been on it), the top's been completely caged in, so no one can jump off it_. _So I took some creative liberties with that scene (much like with the Unicorn Theatre_).


	11. Chapter 11

_Hello everyone--this is the final chapter! I know you guys thought I was finished with chapter 10, but I wanted to bring the story up to the point in Death Note where Mello and Near actually enter the real story, so to speak. The dialogue and actions from the second scene in this chapter are transcribed from the anime almost completely verbatim_--_and it is the scene which inspired me to create this fic., as a sort of unofficial back story for the two of them (and yes, I was nerdy enough to actually watch the scene while I wrote this, so it would be as accurate as possible.)._ _And to those of you who haven't watched Death Note, well, that second scene has some major spoilers in it. . ._

Chapter 11: Many Shades of Black

It was late afternoon and Mello was sitting on the ground, wedged into the large trunk of a tree on the expansive lawn behind Wammy's House. He was wearing headphones and his gaze was trained on the open pages of the book sitting in his lap, a rather large tome entitled '_The History of the Medieval World_.' He was trying hard to concentrate, but after an hour of going through seemingly repetitive chapters, his eyelids were starting to droop. And the lilting, lullaby-like music playing in his ears wasn't helping, either.

_There's a darkness upon me  
That's flooded in light  
In the fine print they tell me  
What's wrong and what's right  
And it comes in black  
And it comes in white  
And I'm frightened by those  
Who don't see it. . ._

Dark, smoky clouds had started to move in overhead, bringing along with them a premature darkness. Mello felt his head tilt back against the tree trunk; his eyes were closing and the medieval world, like the sunlight above, started to fade away. Surely the emperor Theodosius could wait while he stole a few well-earned winks, couldn't he?

Everything went dead silent. Too silent. Mello's hands groped up to his headphones: gone. Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. Then Matt's voice said: "Mello, wake up!" Mello's eyes snapped open. He found himself staring at the white blankness of his headphones and I-pod, which were now in Matt's hands (well, technically, the items actually belonged to Matt, but the other boy had long since learned to tolerate Mello's pilfering of his various electronic devices).

"I wasn't sleeping; I was studying," said Mello defensively.

"Sure you were," Matt answered with a smirk. "What are you reading anyway?" He lifted the book from Mello's lap and looked at the cover. "Nice doorstop you've got here," was all he said, before tossing the book aside. Then, like a cat with no sense of boundaries, he situated himself somewhat clumsily into Mello's lap, effectively taking the book's place. Mello brought his arms around the other boy, holding him, and they sat that way in comfortable silence for several seconds, before Mello said, "I'm never going to pass the test if I don't finish it."

Matt's arm slinked up Mello's neck like an agreeable snake, his fingers pushing into his hair, rubbing his scalp. "You need to take a break."

Mello sighed contentedly, leaning into the other boy's tantalizing touch. "I can't help it," he complained. "Every freakin' century the same thing happens: some emperor gets beheaded and everyone decides to persecute some _other _religious sect. Over and over."

"So history repeats itself," Matt said, stating the obvious.

Mello glared at the book on the ground as if it were a living creature, a creature that he wanted--no, _needed-_-to subdue and tame. "Dammit--he's not going to outscore me this time! This time I'm gonna--mmmf--"

Suddenly Matt's lips were on his, cutting off his rant mid-sentence, cutting him off before he could invoke the detested N word. Mello knew that Matt was purposely trying to distract him, and he allowed it, losing himself in the other boy's careful ministrations. He felt Matt slide, subtle as water, felt him move to fully face him, effectively pinning him against the tree trunk. Ever since the incident on the monument platform two weeks ago, there had a been a slight shift, a noticeable realignment within their relationship: Mello could no longer be called the obsessively possessive of the two. For the last couple of weeks, Matt had practically bowled--no, steam-rolled--Mello over with the force of his passion, his attentions, and since Mello had been trying his damnedest to follow L's orders and not go out of Winchester, to not go into London, he'd found himself welcoming Matt's new-found, possessive amour with ready, open arms, using the other boy, for better or for ill, as a sort of personal, physical distraction.

"Jesus, you two--why don't you get a room already?"

Mello looked over Matt's shoulder to find Linda, one of the other Wammy students, glaring at them. Her expression was stern, her hands planted firmly on her narrow hips.

"Geez, Linda, you sound just like a nun or something," said Mello, his eyes quickly turning dark with mischief. "So--you gonna_ spank_ me with a _ruler_?"

"God Mello, you are such a pervert!" said Linda with obvious disgust, and she turned on her heel to walk away.

"Linda--hey, Linda!--you really should bring that nun's outfit by my room later!" Mello called over Matt's shoulder, which was now shaking in silent laughter.

"You really are a pervert," said Matt without any real censure.

"You like it," insisted Mello, diving in for another kiss. Then Linda's voice interrupted them from behind the tree:

"Mello, I came to tell you that Roger wants to see you in his office!" He could plainly hear the smirk in her voice: _Mello's in trouble again!_

"Oh hell, what did I do now?" said Mello, disentangling himself from Matt and standing up. He'd been a model student--well, as close to model as he was capable of--since his meeting with L and Watari. The detective and the inventor had both flown back to Japan after they'd concluded their scheduled meetings with their top students, and Mello hadn't heard from them since.

Mello left Matt by the tree and reluctantly marched toward the house. Swiftly moving storm clouds had cloaked everything in a dark aura, threatening the grounds with impending rain. As Mello neared the back of the house, he spotted a lone figure standing in a floor-length window, its outline dark and ominously still in the distance. _Roger_. Mello slowed his pace, a strange feeling of foreboding--irrational, unexplainable--crowding in, much like the cluster of clouds overhead. He found he didn't want to go to Roger's office. His pace slowed even further. He just knew, knew that he shouldn't go. He knew that if he did, then something bad was going to happen. He was going to hear something, something he didn't want to hear: something terrible, something wrong, something--. Mello's hand obsessively, unconsciously reached up for his rosary--the rosary that wasn't there--and then he remember that it was gone, that Near had broken it into a dozen irreparable little pieces.

Mello paused--hesitating--and stared at the dark, unmoving figure in the window. Then, with his eyes narrowed in renewed determination, he resumed his death-like march toward the house.

* * *

The first thing Mello saw upon entering Roger's office was the older man seated behind his large oak desk, his hands steepled beneath his chin, a grim expression on his face.

_Grim--_

But that was only at first. Mello's eyes were then drawn to the right, to the other figure, in white, in front of the desk. He sat on the floor, his head bent over a jigsaw puzzle, the irritating _Snap!_ of the puzzle pieces being pushed into their appropriate spaces filling the office. Mello immediately felt his anger begin to rise. _What the hell was he doing here? _And then Mello remembered that awful feeling, the sense of foreboding he felt out on the grounds. . .

_ "L is dead."_

And there it was. No preamble, no greeting, nothing-- Mello blinked, thought he had misunderstood and said, "What was that? Roger. . ._ what did you just say_?"

"I'm afraid L is dead."

And there came that feeling again, the feeling of Mello's entire world being spun right off its axis. Of falling over a cliff, from a rooftop, only--

Only this time it was _real._

"He's dead? But--but _how_? Was it Kira? Did Kira kill him?" Mello was now leaning over Roger's desk, shaking, staring at the older man, who just sat there, with his eyes downcast, saying nothing.

And inside, Mello was screaming.

_Snap!_

Mello grabbed Roger by the lapels and pulled him forward. Violence welled up inside him, like a dark, bubbly crude. "C'mon Roger, you've got to tell me!"

"Probably," was all the other man managed to whisper. And Mello, as usual, was oblivious to everyone else's pain--only his own mattered.

"But. . . he promised me he'd find Kira and execute him! And now. . . you're telling me he's been _killed_?" He shook the other man, and Roger brought his hands up to disentangle himself, his voice imploring:

"Mello!"

_Crash!_

Mello turned his head at the sudden sound. Behind him, Near had completely upended the puzzle he'd been working on so diligently, turning it upside down and letting the hundreds of pieces just fall unceremoniously to the ground_, _the sound jarring all three of them, causing everyone to freeze and stare.

It was the only display of emotion that Mello had seen the other boy show in the whole of the last two weeks.

Near didn't look up once. He calmly and methodically began replacing the puzzle pieces, stating in a calm voice:

"If you can't beat the game, if you can't solve the puzzle. . . well, you're just a loser."

_Snap!_

Mello stared at the other boy as if he had gone mad. _How can you sit there and say that and not feel anything? _Mello's mouth hung open in disbelief. _Goddam Near and his stupid, cryptic pronouncements. . ._

Mello's head swung back toward the desk, his own grim expression taking over. "So_. . . _which of us did L pick? Me or Near?"

Roger just looked down at his desk in sorrow. "He hadn't chosen yet. And now that he's gone, I'm afraid he won't be able to. . ."

Mello's eyes widened at this announcement. His hands were shaking beyond all control, and he could feel a darkness, like the storm clouds outside the window, rolling in, threatening--

_There's a darkness upon me  
That's flooded in light  
And I'm frightened by those  
Who don't see it. . ._

"Mello, listen--" said Roger. "You too, Near. Can't the two of you work _together_?"

And Near answered, without ever looking up from the floor: "Alright, sounds good."

Mello was horrified by this suggestion. After that last unfortunate little exercise that he and Near had teamed up on, he'd swore to himself that he'd never work with that unemotional little bastard ever again. He couldn't take it, his icy stoicism, even after his unprompted confession below the monument:

_"Mello. . . has it ever occurred to you, that what I always say about you and your emotions. . . that maybe the opposite might be true about me?_"

No! It just wouldn't work! He and Near were just too different, too opposite. What Roger was proposing was too ludicrous to even consider. He didn't see the way they'd worked together before, how at odds they'd been with one another, how they'd bickered at every single turn--

_But your skills complement each other_, said the wicked little voice in the back of his head, the one that always spoke the truth. _He thinks, while you act. He hesitates, while you are fearless. Together, you could surpass L--_

_Together. . ._

And then there was that other memory, that painful little memory from that night in Near's room, where he'd been talking with the other boy as if they were, in fact, equals, and Near had said: "_Mello, if L fails to bring down Kira, then you and I must be ready. . ."_

_You and I. . ._

Logic screamed that their pairing was necessary, fated even. But Mello's emotions defied any kind of logic. And right now, all he could feel was pain and loss and hatred and a new burning, burgeoning desire for revenge--

"It will never work, Roger," spat Mello. "We can't do this together. You know I don't get along with Near. We've always competed with each other--_always_!" Mello thought he saw a flicker of a different kind of sorrow in Roger's face then, and so he hurried on:

"You know what? It's fine. Near should be the one to succeed L. He's not like me. He never gets emotional. He just uses his head, like it's a game or puzzle. . ."

_Snap!_

"And as for me," continued Mello, "I'm leaving this institution--"

"Mello!" Roger stood up from his chair.

"Don't waste your breath," warned Mello, his voice full of poison, as he turned away. "I'm fifteen years old, and it's time I started living my _own_ life."

Mello spun and walked past Near, who didn't comment or look up even once. And Mello felt it again, that sense of disappointment, that sense of having been cheated. _Save me from myself!_

He hadn't looked at him _once_!

And then Mello fled from Roger's office; he ran down the hall, his own broken heart flailing loudly in protest within his chest. _L was dead--he was gone! _So Mello was truly an orphan now. The only man whom he had ever listened to, whom he had ever considered to be any kind of father figure, was gone. And Kira had killed him.

Well then, Kira would pay. . .

Mello didn't care how long it took. He didn't care what he had to do. And woe to anyone who _dared_ to get in his way. He _would_ bring down Kira. Some day, some how. Whatever he had to do, whatever he had to sacrifice--he would make sure that Kira paid dearly for murdering L.

* * *

It was late evening and the wind and rain whipped mercilessly at the house windows, ruthlessly rattling the window panes in dissatisfaction. Lightning flashed, sending a strobe light of bright white squares flaring across the dark carpeted hallway. In the hallway, a figure in black moved stealthily, slithering, like an inky shadow, from one door, only to disappear again through the confines of another. The lightning fell briefly on the figure, illuminating, for a split second, his bright gold hair and green eyes, green eyes that were filled with twin specters of doubt and regret.

Mello had left Matt fast asleep in his room, his mouth hanging open and his gameboy hanging loosely from his fingers. Such sweet oblivion. And Mello had just sat on the edge of the bed staring at him, knowing that he was trying to fix this moment in his mind, forging it into a usable memory, a kind of talisman to invoke for the tough times ahead. Mello had tried so many times that evening to just say the words, had tried them out over and over again within the sanctity of his own mind, and yet he still could not bring himself to say them out loud: _I am leaving._ So he had ended up saying nothing. And now he was slipping away like some kind of thieving coward in the night, unable to tell the boy that meant so much to him that he was going.

And it was because that he meant so much that he was leaving him behind.

Mello had about five thousand pounds stashed away from playing poker. That and a job offer waiting for him in London. He was setting out on a different road now, and it wasn't going to be an easy one; in fact, it was going to be a very dangerous one, and it was for the best, really, that Matt remain behind.

And eventually, he would forget Mello. . .

Mello padded into the waiting darkness of his own room. He had one bag packed and ready to go. He had to travel light; he had to be ready to pick up and go at a moment's notice. He had to keep moving forward at all costs. It was a long, winding road he was on, and it was one that was going to dead-end with Kira.

_Kira, I am coming for you. . ._

Lightning flashed through the window, and its brief illumination caused Mello to jump back with a start: he was not alone in the room. A figure sat propped on the window sill, one leg up, the other left dangling. A figure shrouded in ghostly white. Mello would have known him anywhere.

"Near?"

Another flash showed him large dark eyes which turned to stare in his direction. Mello went and snapped on his bedside lamp, filling the space with amber light. "What are you doing here?" asked Mello, his obvious irritation coloring his voice.

"You're being foolish."

"Spare me the lecture," snapped Mello, who grabbed the duffel bag and unzipped the top, checking its contents. "I don't have to listen to your criticisms anymore; I'm leaving--remember?"

The other boy merely stared at the floor. "L would not want this." he whispered.

"It doesn't matter what L wants. L is _dead_. Or were you not paying attention earlier?" The words were meant to bite, to cut, but they came out sounding broken, defeated. Mello felt his own shoulders begin to shake, and his body was racked with a threatening sob, with a choking, grinding pain that was yearning, wanting to burst out, and it took everything he had to reel it back in, to subdue it, to crush it down. Because he would be _damned _if he let the other boy see him like that!

_Save me from myself!_

"Is this really necessary?" Near said suddenly. And there was the slightest flicker of something there--a spark of emotion, a near imperceptible flash. It was there and gone, like the lightning outside the window.

Mello froze over his bag. _Nevermind what L wants; what do you want?_ _Do you want me to stay?_

And then the voice in the back of his head whispered: _He'll never say it. He isn't capable of it. Anymore than you are capable of holding your own terrible feelings at bay._

Mello clenched his jaw. "It is."

Near simply nodded, as if this was the answer he had expected. Then he turned and stared again out the darkened window. "Take that case with you."

It was only then that Mello noticed the black briefcase that was sitting on the floor by the window. Mello regarded it suspiciously. Still, he went and plucked it from the ground. "What is it?"

"Copies of L's case file on Kira."

Mello's eyes widened at this. He saw Near's head swivel back in his direction, and for once, their gazes met one another in complete, perfect understanding. Even separate, they were one in this. The aim, the goal:

Defeat Kira at all costs.

_Separate, yet still one._ . .

Near slid from his place on the window sill, and he walked across the carpet, his step as light and quiet as a cloud. He said nothing as he went. Mello stood by the bed and watched him go. And then, in a feeling of desperation, Mello said:

"Near!"

And the other boy paused in the door way.

"I'll. . . I'll see you at the finish."

Mello saw a slight smile actually touch the other boy's lips--another surprising display, coming from him. And then the other boy's voice was as clear and melodious as a church bell as he replied:

"I'll. . . see you at the finish."

Near left the room, and silently pulled the door closed behind him. Mello just stared at the empty space where he had been for several seconds, and then he turned his attention to the briefcase on the bed. He ran one gloved finger over it, his touch light, almost covetous, as if the case was filled, instead, with money or jewels or some other equally ridiculously expensive object. But no, this was better than money or jewels. This--this was a head start to victory!

Mello flung open the lid.

He didn't see the discs or documents or anything else that was in the case. Not at first. All he saw, at first, was the glint of pure silver, the shine of red beads. He reached in his hand and pulled out the object, holding it before his face--

It was a perfect copy of his old rosary.

Emotions surged and crashed within him, an inner storm of lightning and thunder: feelings that were conflicting, contradicting, and in the end, simply undeniable. Mello felt his jaw clench and he slipped the rosary around his neck, and its weight there felt right, felt calming, felt. . . perfect. And forgetting the case file and everything else, he quietly shut the briefcase closed and grabbed his duffel bag. The weather outside wasn't going to get any better, and it really was time for him to go. He was sure that Fate would come out and meet him.

And then. . . he would see Near at the finish.

End/Fin.

_Thanks to all who read this piece. I hope you enjoyed it. And I've really appreciated all the positive feedback--it's been an absolute joy to read! This is it for now, people. I may be back in a couple of weeks with a shorter one for you_, _something involving a mafia double cross, a gun battle, and some M X M reunion smut. So until then. . ._

_The song lyrics in this chapter are from the Avett Brothers_' _'Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise.' All the chapter headings are, in fact, song titles._

_Additional (later) author's note: if you made it through this fic., then you have my thanks for taking the time to read it. I call this one my "poor ignored red-haired step-child" fic., because it gets so little attention. So thanks if you made it all the way through. :) XXX S.E.  
_


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